The thunder of thousands of heavy infantrymen marching in perfect ranks shook the night like a storm ripping through the heavens.
Under the pale, ghostly moonlight, the helms of the Grand Aegis soldiers glinted with menace. Each horn was jagged and tipped like the fangs of a beast, casting twisted silhouettes across the field.
On the ramparts, Asher's boots thudded against the stone as he ascended, coming to a halt just shy of a Dragon Head ballista. Four men stood ready—one to aim, one to fire, one to brace the frame against recoil, and the last to reload. They had drilled this dance for months. Yet tonight, sweat trickled down their cheeks and their breaths came shallow.
Reflected in their eyes were the enemies of the sky: the wyverns.
