And the Great Chief began to fall.
The Great Chief's massive frame shuddered, his tusked jaw tightening as if sheer will alone could keep him together. His warriors watched with wide, unblinking eyes, praying their leader would rise, that he would roar and shatter the human's smug grin.
But the crimson line glowed brighter.
Shhhhk!
With a sickening finality, his body split cleanly in two. From shoulder to hip, the mighty Chief of Gomora, the orc who had led countless battles, who had stood against elves and storms and famine, was severed like rotten wood beneath Belanor's invisible blade.
His two halves slammed into the blood-soaked dirt with a thunderous crash, the earth trembling beneath the weight of his fall.
For a heartbeat, silence. Then, chaos.
The orcs screamed, some collapsing to their knees, others clawing desperately at the gates to flee. The chant of "Great Chief! Great Chief!" died in their throats, replaced by the shrieks of a broken people.
