Dawn broke over Sharil with a sky bled red, as if the heavens wept for the carnage to come. The town’s walls, hastily reinforced after Remoran’s bloodied warning, stood defiant but fragile against the horizon’s shadow. A low rumble grew, like thunder trapped beneath the earth, as the Black Maw Clan descended. Remoran led them, a specter of vengeance astride a massive warhorse, Orkinder gleaming darkly at his side. His warriors’ chants echoed, a tide of fury that shook the valley.

  Inside Sharil, Raemok stood atop the eastern rampart, his breath visible in the chill air. His sword rested in his grip, its weight a comfort against the dread knotting his gut. Below, townsfolk huddled behind barricades, their faces pale but resolute. Demoris Valhaven moved among them, his voice steady as he barked orders, rallying guards and volunteers alike. Raemok’s eyes met the captain’s, a silent vow passing between them: Sharil would not fall without a fight.

  The first wave struck like a storm breaking. Orcs in blackened armor surged forward, their axes and spears glinting in the dawn’s light. Arrows rained from Sharil’s archers, piercing throats and chests, blood spraying as bodies crumpled into the mud. But the horde pressed on, undeterred, scaling ladders with guttural roars. Raemok swung his blade, severing a climbing orc’s hand at the wrist. The limb fell, fingers still twitching, as the warrior plummeted, screaming, to be crushed beneath his kin.

  The wall held, but not for long. A battering ram, hewn from a felled oak, slammed into the gate, its iron head splintering wood with each thunderous blow. Raemok raced down, joining the guards bracing the gate. Their shoulders strained, boots slipping in the dirt, as the ram’s rhythm shook their bones. A crack split the air—the gate buckled inward, shards flying like daggers. Orcs poured through, their blades carving a path of gore.

  Raemok fought with a ferocity born of desperation. His sword slashed through an orc’s neck, blood fountaining across his armor. Another charged, axe raised, only to meet Raemok’s boot in its gut, followed by a thrust that pierced its heart. The air grew thick with the stench of iron and death, screams blending into a cacophony that drowned out thought. Yet Raemok’s resolve burned bright, his shouts rallying the defenders. “For Sharil! Hold the line!”

  Demoris was a whirlwind of steel at the square’s heart, his blade cleaving through armor and bone. An orc lunged, its spear grazing his side, tearing flesh. Blood soaked his tunic, but Demoris roared, driving his sword through the orc’s skull, brain matter splattering the cobblestones. He staggered, clutching the wound, yet fought on, his eyes fierce with the knowledge that this was his town, his people.

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  From a hill overlooking the chaos, Remoran watched, Orkinder’s whispers a serpent in his mind. Break them. Spill their blood. Claim your throne. His heart should have surged with triumph, but a hollow ache gnawed at him. The town below was not just a target—it was a mirror of his lost youth, of Demoris’s lessons, of a life he had forsaken. He crushed the thought, letting the sword’s hunger guide him. Raising Orkinder, he signaled the second wave.

  Fire arrows arced through the sky, igniting rooftops and hay bales. Flames roared, swallowing homes where children wailed, their cries cut short as beams collapsed. Raemok saw a guard fall, his chest caved by a mace, ribs splintering through skin. He hacked through the attacker, blood slicking his hands, but the tide was turning. Sharil’s defenders were faltering, their numbers dwindling under the relentless assault.

  Demoris found Raemok amidst the carnage, his face streaked with soot and blood. “We can’t hold the square,” he gasped, his voice hoarse. “Fall back to the inner wall. Protect the families.”

  Raemok nodded, his heart twisting at the sight of Demoris’s wounds. “You’re hurt, Captain. Let me—”

  “No,” Demoris snapped, his eyes blazing. “Lead them, Raemok. You’re their strength now.”

  Raemok swallowed his protest, rallying the survivors. They retreated, dragging the wounded, as orcs pursued, their laughter cruel. A young guard tripped, an orc’s spear impaling his back, pinning him to the earth. His screams died in a gurgle, blood pooling beneath him. Raemok’s vision blurred with rage, but he pressed on, guiding his people to the inner defenses.

  As night fell, Sharil burned, its streets choked with bodies and ash. Remoran dismounted, striding through the breached gate, Orkinder pulsing eagerly. The sword sensed victory, but Remoran’s steps faltered. A child’s shoe lay in the dirt, smeared with blood, and for a moment, he saw Raemok—not the infant he had lost, but a ghost of what might have been. Orkinder snarled, Weakness! and he shook off the vision, his resolve hardening. Sharil would fall, and with it, his past.

  Inside the inner wall, Raemok stood with the remnants of Sharil’s guard, their faces grim but unbroken. Demoris leaned against a barricade, his breathing labored, blood seeping through his bandages. Raemok gripped his sword, the amulet at his neck heavy with purpose. The warlord was coming, and with him, a reckoning that would tear their worlds apart.