The garrison saw her coming before they heard anything.
Gorrah Ironblood walked through the northern access tunnel at a pace that suggested deliberation, not injury. Her armor was intact — the dark stonesteel plate that had been forged specifically for her frame, sized for an Orc's build, jointed for a Sword Saint's range of motion. Her sword hung at her hip, sheathed, clean. Her war-helm was clipped to her belt.
From twenty meters, she looked the same. The Sword Saint returning from deployment. Routine.
At ten meters, the garrison saw the bandage.
