Beneath a pale morning sun and a sky smeared with the soft haze of fading dawn, a modest force stood gathered outside the walls of Arduronaven. A few hundred strong—and a few dozen cavalry, their polished helms catching glints of gold, like fireflies blinking in a sea of iron. Above them, fluttering proud and alone, the banner of House Xanthios snapped in the wind pointing ever forward, unyielding.
At the head of the column, Lord Xanthios himself sat astride his horse, its mane black as midnight rain. He was a man of calm dignity, etched in sun and scar, whose eyes now rose to the high towers of the city before him.
He searched for the flags of allegiance—one of the turncloak lord's son, or even better, the falcon sigil of the crown's house. Yet none flew. The battlements were bare, as if the city itself held its breath, uncertain of its own heart.
The silence from the ramparts wasn't hostile—no arrows loosed, no war horns braying. It was simply… waiting.
