Sand.
Endless, blinding, burning sand.
It clung to armor.
It seeped through cloth.
It chewed at morale, skin, and spirit alike.
And yet… we marched.
Always marched.
Endlessly we the loyal soldiers of the empire marched on to war.
Because I, Medellin Valdesca—the Great Wolf of the Visigoth Empire—was expected to deliver victory where lesser generals could only deliver excuses.
But even a wolf could grow weary.
And even a wolf could question the hunt.
~
The desert wind shrieked across the Aegyptus borderlands as I stood at the crest of a dune, watching my army grind its way forward like a bleeding beast forced to continue by sheer will.
Tens of thousands of soldiers.
Elite by any measure.
But even elite men grew tired.
Even hardened soldiers became hollow-eyed after months of heat, ambushes, and divine retribution cast against us by the gods for entering these forsaken lands.
I clenched my jaw.
