By the third city, what moved with Thessian no longer looked like a campaign. It looked like a tide.
Every city seized and became a staging ground for the next. Supply routes reversed. Valeria's outer defenses began folding inward.
Marcus rode beside Thessian through a captured market street still glowing from scattered fires. "This is conquest."
Thessian's eyes stayed ahead. "This is pressure."
Marcus almost laughed at the understatement. They were choking a kingdom from its edges—doing it too fast. The command bond made the elite move like something Valeria had no doctrine for. No delays. No broken formations. No hesitation.
They struck. Seized. Advanced.
Again.
And in every city taken, the same order held: drive the people out, take the walls, burn what feeds resistance, leave the roads open for those who run.
Mercy—under the shadow of annihilation.
