The roar that rose from the orcish lines did not come all at once.
It began as a low thunder, a rolling vibration that crawled through the ground and up the bones of every warrior standing upon the open plains. Then it grew, layered upon itself, hundreds of voices merging into thousands, old battle chants colliding with new ones, tribal cries overlapping until language itself blurred into raw intent.
Victory was coming.
Sakh'arran felt it before he fully saw it.
He stood upon a slight rise of trampled earth where he could clearly see the broken bodies, the boots stained dark with blood ground of the battlefield ahead. Around him the command circle of the Yohan First Horde still functioned with grim efficiency. Horn bearers stood ready. Messengers ran and returned. War chiefs shouted reports that barely needed saying.
The enemy was breaking.
Not everywhere. Not yet.
But enough.
