1,640.
1,640.
1,640.
Arnold repeated the number in his mind like a curse, each recitation echoing louder than the last. It didn't feel real, and yet the ink on the parchment in front of him was all too permanent. That was the final count—1,640 men.
A far cry from the nearly 3,000 they had raised just four years prior, back when the royal banner still commanded fear and respect, and the mere whisper of the prince's name could compel lords to sharpen their swords. Now? Now they barely scraped together half that number, and even that meager host was a ragged shadow of its former self.
Out of the 1,640, barely 200 were knights—the rest a scattered mix of levy spearmen, half-trained retainers, and aging veterans drawn from whatever garrison stronghold had not yet emptied their numbers. Even calling it an army felt like a courtesy. It was a wall of cracked shields barely holding back a flood.
Arnold shifted his gaze across the dim interior of the tent.
