Stormhall Valley – Dawn Drills
The valley beneath Stormhall was still damp from the storm that passed two nights before. Mist rolled low across the ground, stirred only by the boots of two hundred soldiers standing in disciplined rows. The gray morning light touched the polished barrels of their rifles—Gewehr-98s, foreign and precise, gleaming like fangs beneath the iron sky.
Prince Kaen stood on the ridge above, arms folded behind his back. His cloak snapped softly in the wind. The command dais, raised with dark stone and lacquered wood, bore the weight of history—and change.
Beside him stood his council of inland nobles. Lord Edran of Raem's Hill, the old wolf in silver-lined mail. Lord Carten Vael, thin-lipped and silk-robed, more diplomat than fighter. Baroness Sura Venar, hawk-eyed and quiet, her ringed fingers resting on a cane blade. And Marshal Devrin, the only one armored for battle, iron helm tucked beneath his arm like a disapproving father.
