As the horde of Orc warlords closed in, their jagged blades gleaming and twisted grins spreading across their grotesque faces, the battlefield quaked beneath their charge. The once-proud army, now broken and retreating in desperation, scattered like leaves before a storm. But amid the chaos—among the screams, the clashing steel, and the pounding war drums—one man stood his ground. Tall, unyielding, and defiant, he faced the oncoming tide alone. His eyes, burning with purpose, met the savage glare of the monsters who slaughtered without mercy, who killed as easily as breathing. Yet he did not flinch. While others fled in fear, he remained—one last ember of courage in a world consumed by terror.
Ser Dorian tightened his grip on the hilt of his greatsword, the worn leather biting into his calloused palms. His armour bore the scars of a hundred battles, but his eyes—fierce, unwavering—held the fire of a thousand more yet to come. Before him stretched a sea of snarling orcs, their war drums echoing like thunder across the bloodstained hills. Behind him, the last hope of his kingdom waited, trembling. He would not let them fall. If he had to stand alone, blade in hand, against the tide of darkness, then so be it. He would carve their salvation from steel and resolve.
One of the orc warlords let out a low, guttural chuckle, his yellowed tusks glinting in the firelight. His eyes narrowed as he watched the lone figure standing defiantly on the battlefield.
"Well, well... this one's got some fight left in him," he growled, a cruel grin spreading across his scarred face. "Not running. I like that."
Ser Dorian clenched his jaw, the taste of ash and blood thick on his tongue. His eyes—hard, unyielding—rose to meet the sneering faces of the orc warlords across the smoke-choked battlefield. Around him, the clash of steel had faded into a grim silence broken only by the retreating footsteps of his comrades. They fled in desperation, driven by terror. But not him.
"I will not run," he growled, his voice low but steady, forged in the crucible of countless battles. "Even as my brothers abandon the field, I remain. I will stand for those who cannot stand for themselves. I will fight for the people I love."
A gust of wind stirred his battered cloak, and the weight of his greatsword shifted in his calloused hands. He tightened his grip, his knuckles whitening as the fire in his chest surged. The fear gnawed at the edges of his mind, but it would not break him.
"No fear, no beast, no death will bend me," he said, his eyes gleaming with raw defiance. "I am Ser Dorian—and I do not yield."
The warlords—once towering figures of pride and unchecked arrogance—now stood frozen, their smug confidence unravelling before the quiet defiance of a single man. He should have been trembling, crushed beneath their shadow like so many before him. And yet… he wasn't.
He faced them without fear, shoulders squared, chin lifted. In his eyes burned something the orcs had never seen before—something alien, something unsettling. It wasn't rage, nor hatred. It was fiercer than either. It was hope.
That look, sharp and unwavering, pierced through the veil of their god-like power. These were beings who could twist the fabric of reality with a passing thought—who had snuffed out kings and broken realms without blinking. But in this moment, faced with that fire in a mere mortal's gaze, something ancient and instinctual stirred within them.
The Orc King stirred in his great iron throne, his eyes narrowing as a strange tension prickled the air. A tremor of unease ran through the war tent, subtle at first, but growing with each heartbeat. He could feel it—fear. It clung to his warriors like a foul stench.
With a guttural snarl, he rose to his full, monstrous height, casting a long shadow across the chamber. His hulking frame dwarfed even the mightiest of his captains. The firelight danced across his thick, battle-scarred skin, and his crimson eyes burned like coals in a forge. Massive tusks jutted from his snarling mouth, gleaming with the edge of bone honed in blood and war.
His voice was thunder, deep and raw, shaking the very bones of those who heard it.
"What is this?" he growled, his gaze sweeping the room like a blade. "Why do I smell fear among my kin?"
The orcs shifted uneasily, not daring to meet his gaze. The silence that followed was heavier than steel.
A heavy silence hung over the battlefield, thick and suffocating. The orc warlords—hulking beasts bred for bloodshed—stood motionless, their eyes wide with unease, their massive weapons trembling ever so slightly in their hands. None dared to speak. None dared to move.
Perched atop his throne of bones and iron, the Orc King surveyed his army with a glare that could melt steel. His lip curled in disgust, revealing jagged teeth stained with the blood of a hundred battles. The silence of his warriors was more deafening than any war cry.
Pathetic.
With a slow, deliberate motion, the king turned his gaze to the lone figure standing defiantly before them—a man, battered and bruised, his armour cracked and hanging from his frame like shattered glass. Yet he stood tall, unflinching, as if the sea of monsters before him were nothing more than shadows.
A growl rumbled from deep within the king's chest, low and feral. His voice, when it came, was a snarl of contempt.
"Are my legions of warlords truly cowering… before one broken man?" he spat. "Is this what fear looks like? A trembling army, brought to silence by a weak little creature who refuses to kneel?"
His words echoed through the valley, a cruel insult carved from rage and disbelief. Still, the man did not flinch.
And in that moment, the king's fury deepened—not because his enemy was strong, but because his army had forgotten how to be.
Ser Dorian stood tall, his battered armor catching the dull light of the overcast sky, the crimson of past battles still clinging to the steel. His eyes locked with those of the Orc King—not with fear, but with a quiet fire that burned deep behind the weariness in his gaze. It was the look of a man who had nothing left to lose, and yet still chose to fight. A look full of grit, resolve, and something far more dangerous than strength—hope.
The army behind him, though loyal, trembled in silence. They could not understand how one man, human and fragile, could stare down a mountain of muscle and fury without flinching. That look Ser Dorian wore—it haunted them. It wasn't the desperation of a fool, but the calm belief of someone who saw a way forward even through the darkest of nights. It unnerved them. Because they didn't believe. Not like he did.
And the Orc King saw it too.
His lip curled, more in curiosity than contempt, tusks catching a flicker of the dying sun. What is this? he thought, narrowing his gaze. Not fear… not rage. He dares look at me with purpose?
The hulking Orc King shifted, his mind racing behind his feral eyes. He's just a man. A soft, breakable creature. He couldn't wound me if he trained for ten lifetimes. And yet… he knows something. Something no human should. That look—it's familiar. Too familiar.
The memory came unbidden—ancient and buried under centuries of blood. A time long passed, when others had worn that same look. When the orcs had known defeat.
No… they were all supposed to be dead. Every last one of them. Yet this one stands here… alive. Knowing.
The Orc King's knuckles tightened around the haft of his blade. The wind whispered between them, carrying with it the heavy scent of earth, sweat, and something sharper—danger.