The march to the Wheeler Clan would take three grueling weeks of nonstop travel.
The roads were long and dusty, the sun relentless, and with little else to occupy their minds, the soldiers spent their time talking—or rather, speculating—about the coming siege.
Every conversation carried a sharp edge of anxiety.
The tension was palpable, coiling through the ranks like a living thing.
Nobody wanted to die, and the thought of bloodshed haunted every step.
Normally, a drink or two could ease the nerves, but on the march, with their hands full and the road unending, the men could only speak of what might come.
"Do you really think Young Master Riley can do it?" a young warrior from the Rice Clan asked, his voice low as he trudged along beside an older, battle-hardened soldier.
"A complete victory… without any losses?" His boots kicked up dust with every uncertain step.
