A sea of torn ducal banners fluttered in the autumn wind outside the outer gate of White-Lotus Valley.
Clouds of yellow road dust hung suspended above the southern highway as thousands of armored boots marched in weary, steady rhythm.
Standing atop the wooden barbican, Princess Valeria gripped the timber railing with white knuckles.
Beside her, Sera Thorne leaned on her Storm-Pike, her amber eyes tracking the endless column of infantry winding through the lower pass.
These were not invaders.
They did not carry siege ladders or flame-projectors.
Ten thousand soldiers marched beneath the mountain cliffs, their spearpoints lowered to the dirt. Every single man had ripped the crimson dragon-crest of Grand Regent Malakor from his breastplate, leaving jagged tears in their leather armor.
At the head of the column marched three veteran brigade commanders.
