The charge of the Francian levies was chaos given form.
Their bodies surged like a wave — not evenly, not uniformly, but wildly, as men sprinted, stumbled, and roared across the frostbitten earth.
Footfalls struck the soil in staccato rhythm, and their chants and roars grew louder the closer they got, until it wasn't song anymore — just screaming.
The second banner.
That was the mark.
Julius watched without blinking.
When the bulk of Guilliame's army crossed the painted red marker in the field, the Romanus archers let loose.
A hundred bowstrings sang in eerie harmony.
Then came the shrieking death of iron-tipped arrows.
They fell like a curtain — not scattered, not haphazard — but layered and deliberate.
The first volley slammed into the front ranks of the Francians, who had no shields, only pitchforks and tools turned into weapons.
Men fell in droves.
Skulls cracked.
Throats burst.
The lines buckled.
But still they came.
"Second volley!"
