Four days had passed since the blood had soaked the earth outside Aracina, and the army of Yarzat now marched toward Bracum—slow, steady, but with the kind of vigor that only victory could bring.
There was no fear in their steps. No trembling hands clutching weapons in the cold of uncertainty. Instead, the air around them seemed to pulse with something more vibrant, more dangerous: elation. The men marched with the confidence of gods walking among mortals, as if the gods themselves had finally decided to favor Yarzat.
And why not? They had just crushed the Prince of Oizen's army in a night raid so brutal that even the shadows had run from the bloodshed.
To say the victory had lifted their spirits would be an understatement—it had sent their spirits soaring. Every soldier had been richly rewarded.
The city of Aracina had been a banquet, a celebration disguised as relief. Soldiers roamed the streets like conquering lords, fattened with plunder and flush with pride.
