Kraghul's eyes snapped open in the dim interior of the large orcish tent. The air was thick with the scent of smoked herbs and damp furs. His chest heaved as he sat up too quickly, a cold sweat already coating his skin. Something was wrong. Deeply, terribly wrong. A heavy sense of impending doom pressed down on him like an invisible weight, making his stomach twist and his heart race. He couldn't remember the dream—no, the nightmare—but the feeling lingered like poison in his veins. Something was on the verge of going horribly wrong, and he couldn't pinpoint what it was. The uncertainty clawed at him, leaving him restless and on edge.
He rubbed his face roughly with both hands, trying to shake the dread away. "What the hell is this feeling?" he muttered under his breath. "It's like the sky is about to fall… but I can't remember why."
