A pre-dawn chill clung to the air like a spectral hand as Luke joined the other chosen warriors. The elite group, handpicked by Prince Valdar himself, was a tapestry of experience. Weathered veterans, their faces etched with the map of past battles, bore steely gazes beneath their helmets. Nimble scouts, clad in supple leather that seemed to meld with their wiry frames, moved with a silent grace. And then there were the young knights, like Luke, eagerness to prove themselves shimmering in their eyes despite the gnawing anxiety.
Leading this motley crew was Ser Gregor, a man built like a mountain himself. His head, shaved clean, showcased a canvas of battle scars, each one a story etched in crimson. His reputation as a fierce warrior and a born leader preceded him. He surveyed his troops with a critical eye, a single, curt nod his only acknowledgment.
"First light breaks," Ser Gregor announced, his voice a gravelly rasp that rasped against the silence like sandpaper. "The goat trail is a treacherous path, a whisper on the lips of only the hardiest mountain folk. Stay close, stay alert, and trust your instincts above all else."
As the first rays of dawn painted the horizon with streaks of orange and rose, the vanguard began their ascent. The path, barely wider than a goat's back, as its name suggested, snaked precariously up the mountainside. Loose rocks, like treacherous marbles, skittered under their boots, sending shivers down their spines and threatening precarious tumbles.
Silence, broken only by the rasp of their labored breaths and the crunch of gravel beneath their boots, shrouded the group. Tension hung heavy in the air, a suffocating entity that pressed down on them. Luke, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly that his knuckles were white, fought back a rising tide of nausea. He wasn't afraid of battle, the clang of steel and the roar of the fray were familiar songs. But the sheer drop that seemed to swallow them whole with every misstep was unnerving.
Hours bled into one another as they climbed, the thin mountain air a relentless thief, stealing their strength with each labored breath. Fatigue gnawed at their limbs, sweat stinging their eyes and blurring their vision. Just when doubt began to creep in, a ripple of hushed whispers reached them from the scouts at the head of the line.
"Signs of movement up ahead," one scout reported, his voice barely a murmur. "Fresh tracks. Looks like Orcs."
A jolt of adrenaline shot through Luke, momentarily banishing the fatigue. They weren't alone on the mountain. The Rubik forces had anticipated their move. A tense hush fell over the group as Ser Gregor barked out orders, his voice a sharp crack in the oppressive silence.
"Form a defensive line," he commanded. "Archers at the front, knights at the flanks. We don't want a brawl on this narrow path. Remember your training."
Luke took his position, his heart thundering a war drum against his ribs. He glanced at the other young knights, a reflection of his own fear and determination mirrored in their eyes. This was their first real test, and the stakes couldn't be higher.
From around a bend in the path, a hulking orc emerged, its guttural roar echoing through the mountains like a thunderclap. Behind it, a contingent of Orcs, their faces twisted into feral snarls, charged towards them.
The battle was a whirlwind of steel and fury. The narrow confines of the path hampered both sides, turning the fight into a brutal brawl. Luke, fueled by a surge of adrenaline and the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, fought with a newfound ferocity. He parried blows, his movements flowing with a practiced ease that surprised even himself.
A guttural roar ripped through the fray. A particularly large Orc, wielding a spiked mace that looked capable of shattering stones, charged towards Luke. Time seemed to slow down. The stele thrummed faintly within him, a subtle hum amidst the clang of steel.
Instinct, honed by weeks of relentless training, took over. Luke sidestepped the mace's deadly arc, his blade flashing in the morning sunlight. With a swift, precise motion, he plunged his sword into the orc's exposed chest.
The orc crumpled, its life extinguished. A wave of exhilaration washed over Luke, quickly followed by a pang of nausea as he surveyed the carnage around him. Fallen comrades, both human and Orc, lay scattered on the narrow path, a grim testament to the brutality of war.
The battle, though fierce, was short-lived. The Rubik forces, surprised by the sudden attack and hampered by the terrain, were quickly overwhelmed. With their path cleared, the elite squad continued their arduous climb, the memory of the skirmish a stark reminder of the dangers that lurked on the mountain.