The second wave arrived without fanfare. No roar. No thunder. A sudden flash of light followed by steady thud of heavy feet on scorched earth, and the gleam of eyes in the fading storm light.
Fifty of them. Orcs. Not your typical ones.
They came in colors that spoke of different tribes, different bloodlines, different strengths. Green orcs, their bodies thick with muscle, carrying axes that could fell trees. Blue orcs, leaner, faster, their skin dark as a frozen lake, their hands empty but their claws sharp. Red orcs, smaller but radiating heat, their breath steaming, their eyes burning. And at the center, a single gray orc, massive and still, its skin like old stone, its gaze fixed on Nero with an intelligence the others lacked.
Fifty orcs. Each one worth a dozen goblins. Each one a killing machine bred for war.
