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They didn’t argue about the placement, question the timing, or ask anything extra.

They were fully cooperating with every single instruction Sol laid out, nodding along like perfect allies.

It was all smooth, maybe a bit too smooth.

A real tribal chief who had just marched his exhausted people across a wasteland would usually demand to know why an outsider was dictating the whole war.

Vane’s total compliance only proved he didn’t care about the layout, and maybe was really here to honor the sacred pact, which was strange in itself, considering all the negative stories about them.

"Since your warriors must be tired after rushing here, we’ll alter the spacing slightly," Sol said, stepping between Vane and Veylara. "We will keep the Zharun squads entirely separate from the Veynar lines. Your thousand spears will take the secondary ridge positions further down the pass. It’s a better plan this way; it ensures our spirit traits don’t mix up and cause chaos when the field ignites."

"A very wise choice, young general," Vane smiled, his eyes gleaming with a strange anticipation. "We will take the rear ridge. My men know how to hold a block."

Sol’s real reason was purely tactical. He wasn’t about to let a thousand potential back-stabbers mix in with the Veynar veterans inside the narrow stone crevices.

By keeping the Zharun forces isolated in a single, distinct sector, they were much easier to monitor.

If Vane gave the signal to turn their spears on the Veynar, Sol could drop his Golden Dominion field directly onto their block and crush them as a single group before they could infect the rest of the line.

...

The final staging ground at the base of the mountain pass was a chaotic mess of raw muscle, clinking weapons, and heavy, tense breathing. The Veynar veterans stood ready near the base of the cliffs, their axes and spears resting against their leather tunics.

They kept a safe distance from the Zharun lines, their eyes heavy with suspicion. The clearing smelled of old sweat, and the foul, choking stench coming from the center of the Zharun army.

The stark difference in their numbers creating a heavy, uncomfortable friction in the air.

Sol walked slowly through the center of the clearing, his heavy boots crunching against the loose stone. His expression was entirely flat, his sharp silver-crimson eyes scanning the both armies.

The Zharun warriors were busy adjusting their hides and their weapons, occasionally throwing sideways glances at the Veynar warriors. There was a faint, mocking confidence in their posture... the look of a large tribe that knew it held all the cards in this desperate game.

Right in the center of the Zharun formation was the Grave Hound cavalry unit.

There were about hundred of them, and their presence alone made the Veynar warriors stay on their toes.

And honestly, their reaction was kinda justified, as the Grave Hounds were absolute nightmares given form: massive, about ten feet high, six-legged, completely devoid of skin.

Their raw, exposed red muscles pulsated wetly with every heavy breath they took, thick purple veins thrumming beneath the surface of their meat.

A constant, acrid trail of black shadow-smoke continuously dripped from their jagged maws, hissing softly whenever the toxic droplets hit the dry white stones.

As Sol walked toward their section, the pack began to stir. The lead hound, a giant fifteen feet beast, locked its six legs into the dirt, its hairless ears pinning back against its raw head.

GRRRRRRRRBRRRR.

A deep, vibrating growl erupted from its throat, a sound so heavy it felt like stones grinding together beneath the ground.

Within seconds, the other ninety-nine hounds joined in. The narrow valley filled with a deafening chorus of snarling and snapping jaws. The skinless monsters lunged forward against their thick fiber ropes, their claws tearing deep, violent furrows into the limestone gravel as they prepared to spring forward and tear the black-armored human into pieces.

The black shadow-smoke pouring from their mouths doubled in volume, clouding the lane in a foul, choking mist.

Instead of pulling the reins or shouting commands to calm their mounts, the Zharun riders simply sat back. They let the reins go slack, allowing the massive heads of the hounds to snap within inches of Sol’s path.

The cavalry captain... a broad-shouldered man with a heavy obsidian cleaver on his hip, leaned forward. A slow, condescending smirk broke across his face as he looked down at Sol. He let out a short, rough laugh, his eyes full of an explicit, mocking arrogance.

"Ah, careful there, general," the captain shouted, his voice loud enough to carry across the entire clearing. He waved a hand lazily, making no effort to pull his beast back. "Sorry about that, but we can’t really control these guys once they get excited. They’re just too wild and savage for an outsider to walk past."

The other riders laughed among themselves, their faces full of a smug, testing defiance, watching to see if Sol would step back in fear. The apology didn’t sound like an apology at all; it was an overt show of muscle, a deliberate attempt to flaunt their raw power and intimidate the Veynar’s chosen leader right before the battle even started.

They wanted to see if the black-armored outsider would flinch, if he would step back into the safety of Veylara’s spear-wall, or if his knees would shake under the weight of hundred predators ready to hunt.

And more importantly, they wanted to show him who really held the power in this valley.

But, contrary to their expectations, Sol didn’t do any of that, in fact, he didn’t even flinch.

He kept his steady pace, his arms hanging loosely at his sides.

To an ordinary human, or even to the fresh young recruits, the sight of hundred house-sized skinless wolves dripping acidic smoke would be a waking nightmare.

But as Sol’s eyes swept across the snapping jaws, his mind remained entirely cold and indifferent.

Through his senses, he checked their strength.