The first iron-shod war boot clattered onto the flagstones before Kaelen could kick off his slippers.
Across Seven-Tower City, a heavy clamor rolled through the morning mist. One hundred and fifty thousand allied soldiers were pitching tents, staking horse lines, and hammering palisades into the riverbanks.
War horns blared from the ridges. Supply sergeants shouted at mule drivers. Thirty sect banners flapped above the avenues like hornets.
Kaelen paused on the veranda steps, rubbing his right wrist with a slow wince.
If I spend three hours listening to thirty elderly men shout about spear angles, my recovery is ruined, Kaelen thought. A proper nap requires absolute silence, not thirty different theories on heavy cavalry.
Three silhouettes bounded over the low garden wall.
Patriarch Shen landed first, his broadsword clanking against his iron cuirass. Behind him came Patriarch Gao and Patriarch Hong with armfuls of maps.
“Master Ash!” Patriarch Shen called out, his voice vibrating through the floorboards. “The thirty sects are assembled in the great hall, awaiting your command for the counter-offensive!”
