The night air in the orc camp turned thick with tension as the white-haired Chieftess emerged from the treeline like a ghost from legend. Her broadsword dragged behind her, the blade scraping against the rocky ground with a low, ominous grind.

Moonlight caught her white hair, making it glow like fresh snow, and her red eyes burned with a cold, unyielding fire. She stood alone, seven and a half feet of scarred muscle and black iron armor.

Over twenty orcs—Borg's warriors, hardened raiders with axes and spears—froze in their positions around the keep's outer yard, fires crackling behind them. Shava watched from some distance, her hands gripping the hilt of her sword so tight, her palms bruised. Borg stood beside her, his face paling beneath the bruises.

The orcs didn't wait for orders. They were veterans, used to crushing anything that stepped into their path. As one, they charged—twenty green bodies surging forward in a coordinated wave, axes raised high, spears thrusting low, swords swinging in overlapping arcs. They attacked simultaneously, a wall of steel and fury meant to overwhelm any foe. The front rank—five burly orcs with notched blades—led with overhead chops designed to cleave her in two. Behind them, spear-wielders jabbed at her legs to trip her, while flankers circled to her sides, swinging chains and maces to crush her ribs. It was a tactic honed from years of raids: surround, strike together, leave no opening.

The Chieftess didn't move at first. She stood still as stone, sword still dragging, red eyes tracking every weapon, every footfall. Then, as the first axe fell, she exploded into motion.

Her broadsword came up in a blur, not to block but to counter. The blade swept in a wide, horizontal arc that caught the lead orc's axe mid-swing. Instead of clashing, her superior strength redirected it—twisting the orc's weapon aside and using his own momentum to pull him off-balance. In the same fluid motion, her sword continued its path, slicing through his neck in a clean decapitation. Blood fountained as his head tumbled away, body collapsing forward.

The two orcs beside him swung simultaneously—one high for her shoulder, the other low for her knee. She dropped low, her knees bending with impossible grace for her size, the high swing whistling over her head by inches. Her free hand shot out, grabbing the low-swinging orc's wrist and yanking him forward while her sword thrust upward into his gut. The blade punched through armor and flesh, emerging from his back in a spray of green. She twisted, ripping sideways, and his intestines spilled out in steaming loops as he howled.

The spear-thrusters came next, four of them jabbing in unison from behind the front line, tips aimed at her thighs and torso. She pivoted on one foot, her body a whirlwind, the impaled orc still on her sword serving as a makeshift shield. Two spears glanced off his corpse; the other two she dodged with a sideways lean, her white hair whipping like a flag. She flung the dead orc off her blade, sending his body crashing into the spear-wielders, knocking two to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

The flankers closed in now, maces and chains whirling. One chain lashed out for her legs; she jumped, the links clanging harmlessly beneath her boots. In mid-air, she kicked out, her boot connecting with the chain-orc's chest. Ribs caved in with a crunch; he flew back five feet, crashing into two comrades and bowling them over. The mace-wielder swung overhead; she caught the haft one-handed, her grip crushing the wood, and headbutted him. His nose exploded in blood, tusks clashing with hers. He staggered; her sword flicked out, opening his throat from ear to ear.

Ten down already. The remaining orcs hesitated for a split-second, shock rippling through their ranks. They attacked together again, a desperate surge—axes chopping from all sides, spears stabbing, one even hurling a dagger at her face. She moved like water, flowing between the blows. An axe swing from the left—she leaned right, the blade missing by a hair. A spear thrust from the front—she sidestepped, grabbing the shaft and pulling the orc into her rising knee. His face crumpled, teeth flying. The dagger whistled past her ear; she didn't even flinch.

Her broadsword sang now, a whirlwind of death. She spun, the blade extending her reach into a deadly circle that caught three orcs at once: one bisected at the waist, guts spilling in a wet heap; another losing an arm at the shoulder, screaming as he clutched the stump; the third taking a deep slash across the chest that dropped him gurgling. She didn't block a single blow—her speed and precision made it unnecessary. The orcs swung wildly, but she was always a step ahead, dodging with minimal movement, countering with lethal efficiency.

Shava watched from the balcony in disbelief, her tusks grinding. The Chieftess was a myth made flesh—untouchable, a force that turned twenty hardened warriors into stumbling fools. None landed a blow. None forced her to parry. Axes whistled through empty air where she had been a heartbeat before. Spears stabbed shadows. The orcs attacked in waves, coordinating as best they could, but she dismantled them piece by piece, her white hair unstained, her armor unscratched.

Borg, beside Shava, paled to a sickly green.

"Retreat!" he shouted, voice cracking with cowardice.

"Back to the keep! Now!" Borg wasn't prepared for this and for the orc to come here, it couldn't be a coincidence that Kraghul was missing.

The surviving orcs—barely ten left—turned and ran, boots pounding as they fled toward the safety of the walls. Borg grabbed Shava's arm, pulling her along, his earlier arrogance shattered.

The Chieftess didn't chase. She lowered her sword, red eyes scanning the yard. Kraghul wasn't here. She didn't care about these orcs—cannon fodder for wars. No point wasting breath on pursuit. With a single gesture to her guards, she turned back to the shadows, vanishing as suddenly as she had appeared.

But the questioned remained, where was Kraghul?

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