Shadows on the Horizon
The sun slanted toward the horizon, dropping lower with each rush of wind. Its golden crown dipped below, casting long shadows of orange and red across the sky. The clouds, touched in fire and copper, glowed like embers strewn in the heavens. For an instant, the country appeared painted in tranquility—warm light pouring over the hills, the air calm, the world suspended in the tender quiet of dusk.
It was lovely. Serene. The type of twilight that might remind even a warrior to forget the burden of his sword.
But not here.
On the borderland that Vellore's armies had occupied, peace was a cruel illusion. The camp—often filled with the sizzle of fires, the rumble of men exchanging jokes, the din of armor and voices—was locked in a strained quiet. The air was heavy, not with heat, but with expectation and fear. Each soldier sat rigidly, staring at the diminishing light as if the horizon itself could betray them.
