Jarza, commander of the Primogenia , sat high in the saddle, the stink of churned earth and blood rising to meet him.
Below, a thousand of Yarzat's finest tore into the enemy like a tide through rotted timber. The "unbreakable" wall of pikes, so stiff and proud in the morning, now lay in splinters, scattered like the toothpicks of a drunken feast. His soldiers swarmed through the gaps, steel flashing, shields smashing, cutting down anything that dared to move in colors not their own.
It wasn't a battle. It was an unraveling. An unmaking.
Jarza had seen men break before, but he was still surprised by how well it was going.
He thought back to Alpheo's face earlier, calm as still water while the enemy formed their ranks. Not a twitch of doubt. Not a flicker of concern.
It concerned him sometimes how confident he looked, he of course knew it was only a facade, as while he liked to project the image of a stone wall,he inside was instead rotten wood.
