The field stretched far beyond what the eye could take in, a sprawling sea of bodies, banners, and sharpened steel. It was no longer just earth and grass, this land had become the breath between silence and violence, the exhale before a scream.
Arkanos stood at the forefront, his gaze casting over the host assembled in his name. Thousands upon thousands, each soldier a spark waiting to ignite. They bore his crest, the black dragon wreathed in crimson, and yet, he couldn't help but wonder how many would fall before they ever saw home again.
The ground beneath them vibrated with restrained anticipation. It wasn't nerves, not entirely. It was a kind of stillness born only in the moments before change, a hush not of fear, but of fate.
Behind him, the winds stirred, thick with the scent of sulfur and burning herbs. Magic. Heavy, old, and precise.
