The howling winds of the Alps-Draconia Pass never ceased their mournful wail, sounding like the collective weeping of thousands of souls buried beneath the eternal snows. Beneath the shadow of towering granite cliffs, a hundred Sudrath infantrymen stood in rigid, disciplined formation. They were hardened soldiers, men who had faced death in the muddy trenches of the frontier, yet currently, their faces were as pale as the drifts surrounding them. It wasn't the sub-zero temperatures that drained the color from their skin, but the sight descending from the heavens above.
Five hundred massive silhouettes sliced through the thick mountain mist, their wings beating with a rhythmic thrum that vibrated deep within the lungs of every human present. Draconia had not sent aid in the form of gold, grain, or diplomatic promises. They had sent themselves.
