The northern road leading toward Ravenspire stretched across miles of gray hills and broken stone paths. Normally it was quiet. Merchants used it during the day and travelers passed through at night, but today the road belonged to soldiers.
Hundreds of armored fighters marched through the morning mist.
The ground trembled softly beneath the rhythm of their boots. Crimson cloaks swayed behind them like waves of blood moving across the pale landscape.
At the front of the army rode Morcant.
His horse moved slowly but steadily, its hooves striking the stone road with calm precision. Morcant sat straight in the saddle, his dark robes flowing behind him in the wind.
He did not look like a man riding to war.
He looked like someone attending a ceremony that had been planned long ago.
Several elders rode behind him in silence.
None of them dared speak first.
The air around Morcant carried a quiet authority that pressed heavily on everyone nearby.
