Grom's jaw locked tight, the muscles bunching beneath his skin until the silver wire on his tusks groaned under the pressure.
The old orc looked at Jack for several long seconds, searching for a trace of fear, doubt, or hesitation. He found nothing.
Jack's aura was an impenetrable, freezing void, humming with the cold, dormant authority of the silver streaks woven into his soul meridians.
"Then go to your slaughter, human," Grom rasped, stepping aside and gesturing toward the descending ramp that plunged into the lightless belly of the mountain. "Follow the sulfur drains down to the third garrison. When you reach the iron gates of the Maw, do not say the Zor-Grimmarch bloodline failed to warn you."
Jack did not offer a nod or a parting word.
He stepped past the Shaman, his dark coat rustling against the rough volcanic rock as he descended into the subterranean dark, leaving the High Shaman standing alone beneath the smoky glare of the torches.
