Cry
As Volk watched his horde spread out, their heavy boots crunching against the loose gravel and scattered rocks of the mountainside, he let out a silent breath. His hand rose to his brow, pretending to adjust his hood, but in truth, he was wiping away the thin sheen of sweat forming there. His fingers brushed over his scarred skin, cool against the heat of his concealed tension.
Do I really have to do this? he thought, his crimson eyes narrowing.
The mission screen in his vision still loomed at the edges, the timer ticking down mercilessly. The choices he had made thus far weighed heavily on his shoulders. The lies he told the Horde to keep them unified. The secrets he buried to keep them loyal. The things he had done in the dead of night to ensure their survival—things they could never know.
He adjusted his cloak once more, making sure the gesture seemed natural. He couldn't afford to show weakness. Not now. Not ever.