The sun hung high in the sky—a merciless, gilded disk that bathed the world in a clarity so sharp it bordered on cruelty. This was not the gentle light of dawn, nor the forgiving glow of dusk, but the pitiless glare of noon, exposing every scar and seam of the land below as if the earth itself had been laid bare for judgment. The heavens offered no reprieve—no clouds, no haze—just an endless expanse of blue, stretched taut like the skin of a drum awaiting the first thunderous beat of war.
The Royal Host crested the ridge like a slow-rising tide of steel, their advance measured, inexorable. They moved with the quiet confidence of wolves who had long since grown accustomed to victory.
Sunlight danced along polished helms, transforming each into a fleeting crown. Spears stood rigid against the sky, a forest of defiance aimed at the gods themselves, as if daring them to intervene.
And then, the battlefield.
