The morning mist still hung low over Gravemire's fortress. The sound of footsteps echoed from the main training yard. But it was no ordinary troop that was gathered there.
Ten figures stood in two rows. They came from different races: goblins, orcs, lizardmen, dark elves, even one human dressed like a street bandit. Their bodies were covered in old wounds and training scars. Their gazes were sharp. No smiles. No words.
Reed watched them from the stone balcony. At his side, Shia and Jargon, the orc troop commander.
"These are they?" Reed asked.
Shia nodded. "We pick the best of the hundred, regardless of race or rank. Those who remain here are those who pass the final selection."
"And who is the leader?" Reed asked again.
A woman stepped forward. She was slender, cloaked in black. Long ears and silver hair typical of dark elves. Her eyes were like the shadow of the moon lurking through the mist.
"I, Myra," she said softly. "Shadow of Gravemire."
