The sun was only beginning to descend beyond its peak, its scorching blaze washing over the canopied grounds where three thousand seven hundred and twelve souls gathered. Soldiers, farmers, knights, and ordinary men—each bore the weary mark of battle, yet tonight their faces were turned toward a hastily erected platform of stone and wood. Luke stood atop it, his hands clasped behind his back, his heart drumming with the rhythm of nerves and anticipation.
Even with the field wide and open, everyone couldn't see clearly. Rows upon rows of armour gleamed faintly in the twilight, faces blurred by distance. Luke frowned as he glanced around.
"Three thousand plus people and no screen. Right… this is going to be fun," he muttered under his breath, half to himself and half to Saint Cynthia, who stood a few paces away with her usual serene smile.
