Grakthar stood on the ridge, his eyes narrowing as he observed the battlefield below. The once-clear skies were still thick with dark clouds, the storm that Canna had conjured raging on with unrelenting fury. Lightning cracked across the heavens, followed by the deep rumble of thunder, a constant reminder of the Sanctuary's wrath. Rain poured in torrents, making the ground beneath the orc army slick and treacherous. The storm was not just a spectacle; it was a weapon, and Canna wielded it with masterful precision.
Three hours had passed since the battle had begun, and in that time, three of Grakthar's most trusted generals—true calamity ranks—had fallen. The loss of Garn, Zarog, and Urthak stung more than he would ever admit. These were not just commanders; they were the backbone of his forces, pillars of strength and strategy. Now, they were gone, reduced to lifeless bodies on a blood-soaked battlefield.
