In the feeble, dying light of that grey day, the army of the Fox unfurled like a rose,its nectar sweet and inviting, its thorns hidden deep beneath the bloom and its flagrance.
Ratto stood in the fifth rank, the wood of his javelin biting into his palm. Around him, the Hounds reached for their quivers, fingers finding the familiar notch of their shafts. They waited as the gleaming line of the enemy crested the horizon, a thousand points of light that looked like fallen stars blessing the grass. In another life, such a sight might have been the stuff of songs, a tapestry of burning passion and chivalric grace. But today, it was to be song of their deaths.
The enemy had taken the bait. And why wouldn't they?
To Oizenian eyes, the trap looked like a gift. The Prince's banner flapped in the wind at the center of a line so thin it looked ready to snap under a stiff breeze.
