"Leader… stop!! Please, don't open the gate!!" one of the dwarven soldiers shouted, desperately grabbing at the elder's arm.
Their leader hesitated, hand resting on the latch of the small gate, eyes sweeping across his weary men. Worn, bandaged, hollow-eyed from hunger and fatigue. The weight of their suffering pressed harder than any weapon.
"…Let go," he said softly.
"But, leader! We don't know what that masked human might do! If he harms you—!"
The leader turned slowly, offering a quiet, reassuring smile. "Do you honestly believe we can stand against his army?"
The soldier faltered, voice trembling.
"Did you see it? He crushed 120,000 halflings as if they were nothing. His army didn't even move. It was just him and those weird flying magic things," he added bitterly. "We're not even in the same league."
