Dawn broke over the Yohan encampment with the sound that had become as familiar as breathing: the rhythmic cadence of boots striking earth in unison. Thousands of voices counting in the orcish tongue. The clash of wooden practice weapons meeting shields. The bellowed commands of drill masters whose voices could carry across a battlefield.
The camp sprawled across the southern plains like a living thing, organized with a precision that would have shocked any who still believed orcs incapable of discipline. Neat rows of tents arranged by warband, mob and rabble. Training grounds marked with clear boundaries. Supply depots guarded and inventoried. Cook fires burning in designated areas, their smoke rising in orderly columns.
This was the Yohan First Horde, and it bore little resemblance to the scattered, individualistic war bands that had once defined orcish military culture.
