The first thing that truly broke the Threians was not death.
They were soldiers. They had trained for death. They had marched knowing it might come.
What they had not trained for was being spoken to while they died.
The Rakshas at the center stepped forward again, shields grinding, boots sinking into a carpet of corpses that squelched wetly beneath their weight. Their spears rose and fell in measured, merciless rhythm.
"Lok'tar… grahm'kar… lok'tar…"
Victory. Blood. Victory.
The words were not shouted.
They were stated, as if announcing a fact the world had simply failed to notice until now.
A Threian front-ranker screamed and drove his sword forward with all his strength. The blade skidded uselessly across a Raksha's shield. The orc did not even look down at him.
"Small bite," the Raksha murmured.
He thrust his spear forward, the iron head punching through the man's collarbone and exiting his back. The Threian's scream cut off mid-breath.
