The silence in the northern corridor stretched beyond the point of discomfort, warping into something grotesque and unnatural. Thousands of soldiers stood frozen, trapped in a tableau of impending slaughter.
The pale blue light bleeding from the crystal seams washed over the assembled armies, casting sickly shadows across their faces and transforming every tense jawline and widened eye into something inhuman and monstrous.
In that unbearable quiet, sensory details became hyperfocused: the rhythmic, maddening drip... drip... drip of water echoing from some unseen cavern far behind them; the metallic tang of oiled steel; the sour stench of unwashed bodies and adrenaline-soaked leather; the smell of wet stone that seemed to cling to the back of the throat.
Each heartbeat felt like a hammer blow against the eardrums.
Apollo Brightsoul finally broke the spell.
He didn't shout. He didn't charge.
