The sun was setting on the third day as Ashen and Pyro approached the outskirts of the Bloody Desert, their bodies worn but spirits unbroken. The crimson sands beneath them stretched endlessly in every direction, swirling with the howling winds that carried the scent of ancient battles and forgotten bloodshed. But now, as they crested a final dune, their destination finally came into view: Garak'Thar, the impregnable fortress of the Orcs.
It loomed on the horizon like a monstrous shadow, a hulking mass of jagged obsidian walls and towering spires that pierced the sky like the fangs of some ancient, sleeping beast. Even from this distance, the sheer size of the fortress sent a chill down Ashen's spine. It was a fortress that had stood unchallenged for centuries, defying any who dared lay siege to its gates.
"This is it," Pyro muttered, his voice filled with grim anticipation. "The Orcs' stronghold."
