"How many legions are we going to raise, then?"
"All"
One thousand three hundred and fifty helmets. Twenty-two banners catching the wind like wings. Two hundred horses stamping the dirt, snorting steam into the crisp air. Twenty-six officers standing in perfect formation, the chain of command forged and polished even more than their blades.
The air was filled with the mingled scents of oil, sweat, and steel. Beneath that, the faint sweetness of food wagons lined along the rear: sacks of flour, salted meat, beef jerky cured till it could outlast the months, coils of smoked pork and sheep sausage. Barrels of honey and dried fruit packed alongside wheels of hard cheese and jars of pickled vegetables.
Enough to feed an army for four weeks, or starve one for five.
It was a banquet fit for the gods, if the gods had ever needed to march, to bleed, to kill.
