The dawn over the Legion Fields did not bring light so much as it turned the sky the color of boiled turnip.
A heavy frost clung to the grandstands, where ten thousand citizens and off-duty legionnaires had been packing the wooden benches since before the stars faded. Below them, spread across two miles of churned dirt and frozen gravel, the Sixth Legion stood in silent ranks. Their black-and-silver banners stirred and snapped in the river wind, and each cohort was marked by the heavy iron wolf-heads atop its pikes.
Rian stood at the front of the Eleventh Squad with his hands tucked loosely into his coat pockets. His black uniform was clean. Baletta had scrubbed the forest blood out of it with cold water and stiff lye, though the frayed seams at the collar still showed.
