~Omniscient
The Drogath camp was alive again—this time not with labour but with fury. Black banners snapped in the wind, the smell of charred flesh still clinging to the air from the ruins that had once been their forge.
The king’s orders had gone out at dawn: Find Laurent Draven. Bring his head. Get rewarded.
The soldiers moved with grim purpose. Blacksmiths worked feverishly, hammering new weapons from the metal salvaged from their dead. Commanders barked orders, their voices rising over the clatter of armor and steel.
Three divisions were chosen. One to search the mountains. Another to scour the valleys. The last—the largest—was sent to the Varukh border.
Their leader, a scarred Drogath named Varruk, stood before the gathered troops, voice like thunder.
“We are Drogath! We do not
