The ogre who entered was massive.
He was easily four and a half meters tall, his muscles thick and compact rather than bloated, like they had been hammered into shape over years of battle instead of grown naturally.
Tattoos covered almost all the visible skin below his neck, dark ink layered over old scars and faded marks that hinted at victories long past.
Isaac felt it the moment the ogre stepped inside.
His senses flared. This one was strong.
Morga stood beside the Warchief, her posture straight, her eyes steady.
She looked proud, but also tense, like she was still half-expecting something to go wrong even after everything that had happened.
The Warchief's face was terrifying at first glance.
His jaw was heavy, his tusks thick and curved, and his eyes were set deep under a heavy brow.
But when he smiled, the expression softened the sharpness of his features in an almost strangely warm way.
He raised a massive hand, palm open, fingers thick as clubs.
