Lyerin leaped into the air, his powerful legs propelling him effortlessly toward the sky.
As he ascended, he could see his Pig Orcs below—an army returning triumphantly to the maze after their bloody conquest of the other tribes.
The sight was a mixture of grotesque and awe-inspiring.
Some of the Pig Orcs had doubled in size, their once-broad shoulders now hulking masses of muscle and sinew, though many bore gruesome wounds from battle.
Their skin, thick and leathery, was marred by scars and open gashes, yet despite their injuries, the Pig Orcs marched forward with the calm, disciplined energy of a force that knew no fear.
Hovering in the air, Lyerin crossed his arms, the wind whipping his cloak around him as if he were the very embodiment of death watching over the battlefield.
From his vantage point, he surveyed the landscape with an air of silent authority, as if the triumph below was his doing alone.
