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The shadows in the cave swallowed everything whole—the light, the sound, and even the faintest sense of time.

It was as though the very air had thickened, suffocating any trace of clarity or warmth.

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The Ogres and Orcs moved like spectral figures through the murk, their lumbering forms occasionally silhouetted by the fleeting glow of torchlight before they were consumed by darkness once more.

Volk stood in the center of his horde, his gaze sharp and calculating as he observed the task before him. His eyes gleamed like predatory embers, cutting through the dark.

"Cover everything," he ordered, his voice a low snarl that carried through the echoing chambers.

"Every track, every footstep, every scuff of claw or hoof. I want nothing left behind that those winged pests can follow. Confuse them. Trap them in their own arrogance. Let them believe they're the hunters—until the dark swallows them whole."

The Ogres grunted in understanding, their massive, calloused hands clawing through the rocky ground as they moved to erase the trails.

With each scrape and sweep, they disturbed the dirt and dust, scattering loose stones in odd, misleading patterns.

Their heavy footsteps—normally seismic thuds—were muted as they worked meticulously, placing debris in strange formations to obscure where they had come from and where they might have gone.

The Orcs moved swiftly, their smaller but more agile bodies weaving through the shadows like predatory wraiths.

They used dry twigs, dead leaves, and loose branches to craft confusing patterns across the cave floor.

Some Orcs dug shallow trenches, only to fill them again with scattered rubble.

Others dampened their trails with wet earth or crushed moss, blurring the lines between their movements and the natural decay of the cave.

"Make it look natural," Volk growled as he stalked between his warriors, his sharp gaze piercing their efforts.

"Harpies are sharp-eyed. They'll see any hint of something deliberate. Muddy their senses. Make them second-guess every step. If they look to their left, the answer will be on the right. If they look down, it will come from above. I want them blind. Blind and desperate."

The task was grueling, almost absurdly intricate.

Each movement required thought, precision, and patience—qualities that Volk's horde was rarely called upon to exercise.

Sweat trickled down the brows of Orcs as they crawled over jagged rocks, smoothing surfaces or smearing them with deceptive handprints.

Ogres scraped at stone walls, creating unnatural abrasions to suggest movement where there had been none. The illusion had to be perfect.

"There! That wall—it looks too smooth. Roughen it up. And you—what are you doing? That trail leads somewhere. Start again! Leave them with nothing but a labyrinth of nothingness!"

Volk barked commands as he strode through the chaos, his tone a venomous whip that spurred his horde into further, frantic activity.

The cave grew louder with the sounds of their efforts—grating stones, muffled curses, the crack of twigs under careful boots—but none of it escaped the confines of the deep, stifling dark.

Volk's strategy was clear: transform the cave into a maze of dead ends and false leads, a graveyard of confusion where their enemy's sharpest weapons—sight and speed—would become useless.

As the work stretched on, exhaustion began to gnaw at the horde.

The Orcs' shoulders sagged, their hands raw and bloodied from scraping rock.

The Ogres moved slower, their massive bodies taxed from bending low to conceal their trails.

Yet Volk's presence was a force that refused to let their momentum wane. His words were relentless, a constant drumbeat of command and contempt.

"You call this hiding?!" he spat when an Orc faltered, pausing to wipe sweat from his face. Volk's voice echoed off the walls, venomous and cutting.n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

"Do you think the Harpies will give you a moment to rest? Do you think they'll wait while you catch your breath? MOVE! The moment we stop is the moment we lose. If you want to live, then bury yourself in this darkness! Let it become your ally! Or let it become your tomb!"

The fire in Volk's voice reignited their resolve.

The horde moved again—faster, harder, as though possessed by Volk's unrelenting will.

They scattered broken weapons across false paths, mimicking signs of a desperate retreat.

They smashed small stones into jagged shards, creating the illusion of a struggle where none had occurred.

They used moss, mud, and soot to paint misleading trails across the walls, crafting paths that looped back on themselves like serpents devouring their own tails.

And all the while, Volk watched. He prowled through the cave like a shadow made flesh, his presence inescapable.

He would pause occasionally, crouching low to run his claws over a newly crafted path, scrutinizing every detail.

If he was dissatisfied, the offending Orc or Ogre would be sent back to do it again—this time perfectly.

Hours passed—or perhaps it was only minutes. In the suffocating dark, time lost all meaning.

The torchlight had burned low, reducing their world to a hazy gloom punctuated only by the dull gleam of sweat and blood.

Yet the horde pushed on, driven by something primal: survival.

Volk's vision had become their lifeline.

His unrelenting voice had drowned out their fatigue and fear.

Finally, when the last stone had been disturbed, when the last footprint had been smudged into oblivion, Volk called for a halt.

His voice echoed through the cave like the crack of thunder.

"Stop."

The horde froze. The only sound was the rasp of their heavy breaths, the faint drip of water from somewhere deep within the cave.

Volk surveyed the scene with a calculating eye. The cave entrance was an unrecognizable chaos of false trails, broken ground, and cryptic marks that led nowhere. It was perfect.

He straightened, his crimson gaze sweeping over his horde as he spoke.

"They will come. When they do, they will stumble over their arrogance. They will fly in circles like fools, searching for something that does not exist. And when they are weakest—when they are blind and lost—we will strike. This cave will not be our grave. It will be theirs."

The horde remained silent, their exhaustion palpable, but in their eyes burned a fierce determination.

Volk turned back toward the depths of the cave, his voice dropping to a growl.

"For now, we go deeper. Prepare yourselves. If the Harpies do not kill us, whatever lies in this cave might. Either way, we fight. Either way, we survive."

And with that, the horde began to march again, their steps echoing in the dark like the tolling of a war drum.