The southern gates yawned wide, their heavy timbers groaning as chains clattered and wheels creaked. Beyond lay the long, jagged spine of the road to Hollow Pass—a ribbon of stone cutting through ravines and ridges, veiled by a mist that clung stubbornly to the earth. The wind carried the iron taste of the north already, sharp and invasive, like a reminder that the storm was near.
The war host of the South began its march.
Boots thundered in cadence, drums pounded the tempo, banners flared crimson and black in the morning haze. War wagons groaned under the weight of supplies, their wheels leaving deep scars in the road. War-horns blared intermittently, not in celebration, but to remind the army that silence was death, that rhythm meant survival.
