From the high seat of the coliseum, Rikon's knuckles sweated as he gripped the stone railing. His broad chest rose and fell heavily, but no breath seemed enough to steady him. Sweat trickled down his temples as he stared at the nightmare unfolding below.
A third of the proud Orcs, his people, lay butchered, carved apart by threads too swift and merciless to follow. What had been a sea of roaring warriors was now a field of corpses. The rest had broken, scattering in chaos. Screams tore through the arena. Orcs shoved past one another in a desperate scramble for the exits. Some were crushed beneath their own kin, others trampled in blind panic. The once-mighty coliseum now thundered with the sound of fear.
But inside the arena's heart….there was stillness.
Two figures remained unmoved by the storm of carnage, the Great Chief, his double axe gleaming like a mountain of iron… and the human, Belanor, standing amidst ruin with that twisted, murderous smile still carved across his face.
