The Threian camp was a picture of exhaustion. Three nights. Three nights of snatched sleep, punctuated by the maddening, unpredictable appearances of Drok'tagar's Fourth Warband.
The constant threat, the jarring sounds of call for battle erupting at odd hours, had eroded the soldiers' morale to a dangerous low. Faces, usually etched with the grim determination of seasoned warriors, now bore the grey pallor of sleep deprivation.
Eyes, once bright with fire, were dull and bloodshot, reflecting the flickering campfires with a hollow gleam. The rhythmic clang of armor being cleaned, usually a sound of routine and order, was punctuated by groans and the low mutterings of men struggling to stay awake.
