The Orcs regrouped at a safe distance, their lines straightening under Volk's watchful gaze.
He paced before them, his eyes sharp and assessing. "Look at them," he said, gesturing toward the recovering Ogres. "They think it's over. They think we're done."
The Orcs followed his gaze, watching as the Ogres drank from muddy streams and slumped into uneasy rests.
Confusion flickered across their faces. "Warchief," one of them said hesitantly, "if we're not done, then why did we fall back?"
"To train you," Volk said simply, his voice carrying a note of challenge.
"Do you think you've mastered your new strength? Your armor? Your formations? No. You've merely tasted the beginning of what it means to fight as a unit. And those overgrown beasts?"
He gestured at the Ogres, who were now licking their wounds. "They're perfect for this."
The Orcs exchanged looks, slowly beginning to understand.
The retreat wasn't weakness—it was strategy.
