The Legions waited in a silence so profound it seemed to pull the breath from the air. Behind them, the crystal-clear waters of the Lampianis flowed without a care, indifferent to the three thousand souls preparing to dye its banks crimson. The thigh-high emerald grass swayed in the cold wind, a soft, rhythmic shush that was the only sound against the heavy clatter of iron.
Alpheo spurred his charger forward, trotting along the center of the battle line. By every metric of war, this center was his weakest point, thinned out until it was little more than a fragile ribbon of steel, and yet, it was destined to bear the full, agonizing weight of the Oizenian cavalry charge.
It was not by chance, but by design. He was begging for the enemy to strike here.
