The white-runed warhammer smashed into the obsidian floor.
BOOOM!
Fissures spider-webbed from the point of impact, shattering the volcanic stone in a pattern that rapidly spread in all directions. The sheer concussion rocked the entire hall, momentarily silencing the roars of the monsters and the battle cries of the soldiers.
The Royal Army Commander strode in first, his stocky frame clad in immaculate, gleaming armor despite the dust of battle. Behind him, a long column of Dwarf soldiers flooded in, locked in a tight phalanx—dense, efficient, and flawlessly trained. The runes etched into their chestplates burned with a steady light, a stark contrast to the dying, erratic flicker of the dark red runes on Grendel's grunts.
Riven stood dead center in the hall, his short sword still gripped tightly in his right hand. The bandages on his left arm were already soaked through with blood, dripping slowly onto the stone floor.
