The road west of Sylvaenor had been a farm lane when Quinlan first set foot on it.
It was an army now.
The host ran a half-mile deep down the chalk-white stretch between the city and the coastal hills, and at the head of it, alone, twenty paces clear of the vanguard, walked the Holy Son. [Synchra] held her full combat form around him. Black plate swallowed the noon sun. [Soul Reaper] hovered in the air behind him, and his pace was unhurried.
Following him, tens of thousands of elves were marching.
Youthful shrine maidens were carrying numerous quivers filled with arrows. Next to them came matriarchs in ceremonial white with a staff in one hand and a sword that had been their mother's in the other. Behind the matriarchs walked elders with a great deal of centuries in their backs, inside a ring of younger women who had insisted on nothing less.
Every woman in the column had the same eyes.
