Alpheo rode calmly and slowly down the gently sloping hill, the tall grasses brushing against his boots as he approached the left flank.
The air was crisp despite the cold, with the scent of blood yet to be spilled.
Flags fluttered above ranks of disciplined soldiers in tight formation, the First and Third Legion, the pride of his army. Their armor caught the sunlight in glints and flashes, their shields polished, their eyes fixed and waiting, like hounds waiting for the order to pounce on the limping rabbit.
Jarza stood tall just behind the First Corps, a battered wolf-pelt one of the few decorations that Alpheo allowed his top general to wear, draped over one shoulder, his helmet tucked under his arm.
His gaze caught Alpheo's approach, and a wry smile formed at the corner of his lips.
"How did the parley go?" he asked, voice casual as if he already expected the answer
Alpheo brushed a speck of dust from his shoulder before replying, his voice dry as old wine.
