After the signalman had passed, the orc warlord turned. "Humiliation?" His gaze cut into his adjutant's face like a knife. "The real humiliation is letting warriors die for pointless stubbornness! You brothers who have followed me this far are all I have left. Do you want them dead or alive? Look at those fires-our supplies are gone, our reinforcements are cut off, even our retreat has been blocked. The enemy has deployed in full battle order. They were waiting for us all along. They want our answer, not our annihilation. They're forcing us to surrender. If they truly wanted to wipe us out, they would have charged the moment we emerged from the forest, instead of standing here listening to me!"
The words the one-eyed adjutant wanted to roar caught in his throat. He clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned pale. His face flushed crimson, but he remained speechless for a long time.
Dead silence settled over them. Only the roar of burning flames remained, like the earth's labored breathing.
At last, a white-haired shaman stepped forward, leaning on his staff. His clouded eyes turned toward the Alliance flag embroidered with the Council's emblem behind the silver-white formation opposite them. He slowly nodded. "The Alliance... wants prisoners. What they want... is to break our will."
The old shaman drew a deep breath, pulling scorching air into his lungs. He stepped forward alone toward the wall of fire stretching between the two armies. Heat shimmer distorted his figure, and his clothing and armor took on a blood-red glow in the firelight. "But... what we want is hope. This battle now-it is a battle without any hope. Let our people live! As long as our people live, the clan still has hope."
The old shaman's voice was calm and