The glow of flames darkened the half-orc's ashen skin. His sword readied, he circled with his opponent, a human—the Protector of the Vale. Around them stood his comrades, clashing swords against shields and cheering for the duel before them.

"So you choose the orcs then?" The man asked. His voice cracked with sorrow as he forced the words from his throat.

The half-orc raised his weapon. "I've been given no choice. Human or orc. You can't choose when others choose for you."

The man cried out in anguish as he charged the orc. Their swords struck metal as they parried and blocked each blow. Their audience roared. The Protector of the Vale had grown old and his combat prowess waned through middle-age. Each strike he parried sent him reeling. The crowd grew louder—insatiable—emaciated from years of peace.

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The man stumbled and the orc took advantage. He struck again, and again, with his full strength and weight pressing against his sword in a blind fury. The man buckled beneath him and the orc's sword cut deep into the man's chest.

"You could have prevented this, Protector! This didn't have to happen. But you couldn't protect her. You said you loved her, yet you let her die! The Vale murdered her." The orc raised his sword as tears streamed down his face before thrusting it through the man's chest. "I'm sorry, father."

The cheers crescendoed.