Volk led the march, his massive form towering over the Orcs and Ogres who followed in disciplined silence.
The rhythmic thud of countless feet echoed through the dense forest, a steady drumbeat to the otherwise still air.
Despite the powerful energy that seemed to radiate from the group, Volk's brow furrowed deeper with every step, his glowing eyes narrowing as an uneasy sensation wormed its way into his chest.
At first, it was faint—nothing more than an itch at the edge of his consciousness.
He ignored it, chalking it up to his earlier defiance of the system.
Refusing the missions was an act of rebellion, a rejection of the very thing that had promised him power. "It's just paranoia," he told himself, his voice low, as though saying it aloud would banish the thought.
But as they marched, the sensation grew stronger.
It gnawed at him like an insidious whisper in the back of his mind, quiet yet persistent.
