The decision did not come with drums.
There were no horns to announce it, no banners raised at first light, no orders carried by runners bearing the authority of the Great Chieftain. It came instead in whispers that hardened into resolve, in glances shared across dying campfires, in hands that lingered on weapon grips longer than necessary.
By the time the first pale light of dawn crept over the land, the choice had already been made.
They rose early, the newcomers.
Not as a single clan, not as a disciplined warband, but as a loose gathering of warriors bound by impatience, pride, hunger, and the simple orcish certainty that a wounded enemy was an enemy meant to be finished. They emerged from scattered sections of the encampment, converging without signal, drawn together by shared intent rather than command.
