By the third city, what moved with Thessian no longer looked like a campaign.
It looked like a tide.
A heavy tide going after everything... Sweeping through...
Every stronghold seized became the launch point for the next. Supply lines reversed overnight—grain stores, armories, horse relays, all repurposed before Valeria's generals could finish reading the first dispatch. Valeria's outer defenses began folding inward like paper under rain.
Marcus rode beside Thessian through a captured market street still flickering with scattered fires. Smoke curled from overturned stalls, carrying the smell of burned cloth, spilled wine, and something sweeter—roasting grain from a warehouse whose doors had been kicked open and left to swing. "This is conquest," he said.
Thessian's eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead. The flames reflected in them but did not warm them. "This is pressure. They acted first..."
