Outside Lleida, Catalonia
The sun had begun to dip behind the Catalonian hills, casting long ochre shadows across the olive groves and abandoned outposts that dotted the roadside.
The light, somber and golden, the kind that painters chase and soldiers mistrust. It illuminated every jagged edge, making everything too visible. Too still.
It was an omen, and not a boon or blessing gifted by God, but something far more sinister to those superstitious veterans who knew the scent of blood before it was ever spilt.
Erich sat in the lead vehicle of the motorcade. An up-armored Kübelwagen variant with reinforced side plating and a front-mounted comms relay.
The convoy rolled slowly through narrow farm lanes flanked by half-ruined walls and scorched vineyards.
They had departed the rear logistics depot an hour earlier after General Rommel's inspection. Now, they moved back toward the intermediate line, just shy of the Aragonese front.
