Dawn crept over the hills like a careful scout, pale gold light sliding across the orc camp who had a good night rest. The air carried the cold bite of morning and the heavy smell of unwashed bodies, and horse sweat. Orc warriors stirred in their blankets, grunting and scratching, tusks. Kraghul was already awake. He stood on a low rise, arms folded, eyes fixed on the dark mouth of the mine far across the valley. He had not slept. He rarely did when a hunt was active.
A horse thundered in from the north-east flank, hooves drumming panic into the earth. The rider—a young warrior named Gorzod—threw himself from the saddle before the animal stopped, chest heaving.
"Kraghul! One dead on watch! He was headless, propped up like a doll. Blood writing on the rock: 'Sleep tight.' Goblins did it. Slipped right past us in the dark," Gorzod warned but the tone in his voice implied he was distressed by this sight.
