Thyrak, the Herd Lord, watched his minotaurs march.
They marched in lines. In *lines*. Four abreast, spacing measured, weapons at the same angle, hooves striking the training ground in unison. The sound was wrong — not the thunderous chaos of a stampede but the mechanical rhythm of boots on stone, over and over, precise and identical and completely alien.
The Lizardman drill sergeant called cadence from the edge of the field in Common — the mandated operational language. A Lizardman. Teaching minotaurs to march. In a language that wasn't theirs. Between exercises, the minotaurs muttered to each other in Tauric — the guttural, chest-deep tongue of the herds — but the moment the sergeant spoke, they switched back. They'd learned. Thyrak felt the humiliation of it settle into his bones like cold water.
