The streets of Arduronaven trembled beneath the relentless march of armored boots, the air thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and the sickly-sweet promise of victory. At the head of the Herculeian host rode Lord Arnold, his gilded armor ablaze in the midday sun, every polished plate a mirror reflecting the broken city before him. Beside him, Prince Lechlian sat motionless in his saddle, his face an unreadable mask—only the slight tightening of his gloved hands on the reins betrayed his satisfaction.
And then there was Orymus.
Eldest son of the executed Lord Vroghios, last true ruler of Arduronaven before the Yarzats had taken his head and his city.
Orymus was smiling.
Not the measured, diplomatic smile of court, nor the self-satisfied smirk of a nobleman securing power. This was something feral—the grin of a wolf stepping back into a den it had been driven from, teeth bared, hunger sharp in its eyes.
