He crossed the wooden gate of the Oizenian camp atop a stallion that seemed to sense the hostility in the air, its ears pinned back against the wind.
High above, the black bird of his grace's standard danced and fluttered, its silk wings snapping in the gale as if mimicking a real falcon's flight.
It was a weary bird,no doubt of that after months of blood, its feathers ruffled and worn from weeks of hard campaign, yet it soared nonetheless over a field of enemies.
They had faced a full invasion and broken it; now, all that remained was sweeping up the bloody seconds they were left with.
An honor guard of twenty rode at Aron's back. Five of them wore the polished white of the prince's guard, a choice that sat ill with the Golden Steeds of Yarzat.
They were usually the one tasked with the royal protection, and yet their importance was become smaller and smaller the more the confidence of the prince grew.
