The news arrived not with a herald, but with the distant, rhythmic thunder of ten thousand marching feet. Finnian's patience had expired. The philosophical scalpels, the economic tourniquets, the psychological viruses—all had failed. The puzzle would not be solved. It would be smashed.
The Silverport Legion crested the eastern hills at dawn. They did not march in the ragged columns of mercenaries or the disorderly mob of a conscripted army. They moved as a single, polished, terrible machine. Sunlight glinted off perfect ranks of spear tips and burnished helmets. Their pace was relentless, their silence more frightening than any war cry. This was not an army of conquest; it was an instrument of erasure.
From the walls of Aethelburg, the sight was enough to freeze the blood. Lysander's guards, brave men and women all, gripped their weapons, their faces pale. They were defenders of a gate, a street, a person. This was a force designed to break continents.
