The road south eas a path of dust and broken stone.
Westerloch's fields, still blackened from the fires, faded behind them, giving way to gold-streaked plains where wheat and wild grass rolled in the wind.
The sun was high, heat shimmering over the horizon, but the column moved without pause — carts rattling, boots drumming a relentless beat into the earth.
Lan rode at the front, not because he needed to, but because the sight of him was enough to hold the entire line steady.
They moved like a tide, not fast but impossible to stop.
By the third day, the plains broke into low, uneven hills, and the grass thinned to scrub. Dust coated armor and skin, clung to the creases of eyes and mouths. Every step forward felt heavier, but the rhythm of the march did not falter.
The first royal patrol appeared at dawn — ten mounted men in bright Solaris steel, riding hard from the south. They must have thought themselves hunters.
They died before they could dismount.
