–Thud. Thud. Thud.
Javelins struck iron circle in the shields in rhythm, a pounding that rolled through the ranks like thunder. The sharp metallic clangs echoed off the stone walls of Herculia, each blow punctuated by the barks of orders.
"Move! Keep moving!" "Let's go—we've no time for your slow feet!"
Soldiers in Yarzat colors, black and white, the colors that the Herculeians had learned to fear, snarled and shoved, corralling the long line of displaced souls through the ruined gates. Thousands of them: citizens, soldiers, remnants of what had once stood in defiance , now marched with heads bowed, herded like livestock through the city streets.
These were the ones who had chosen flight over fealty, who had accepted Alpheo's offer of safe passage. It had been extended to all: the garrison, the townsfolk, even the highborn who would have usually fallen captive for a ransom.
