The two factions faced each other across the barren stretch of earth, the setting sun stretching their shadows into grotesque parodies of nobility across the cracked ground. The royal retinue stood motionless as statues, their polished armor reflecting the dying light in flashes of molten gold. Only the occasional stamp of a hoof betrayed they were flesh and blood at all. Yet the air between them thrummed with tension - a silent, predatory energy like wolves circling before the kill.
The prince's personal guard had subtly shifted formation, their mounts edging forward with the quiet precision of men who'd danced this dance before. Their hands rested casually near sword hilts, fingers twitching with the barest anticipation. They didn't glare - that would have been too obvious. Instead they watched the rebels with the detached interest of butchers surveying livestock.
The silence stretched, broken only by the whisper of wind through dry grass and the distant drone of cicadas.
