The Roaring Lion Stirs
Vellore's camp was agitated before the sun had even risen above the horizon.
Cold breath swept in the darkening light, winding like smoke around lines of tents. Men in silver-plated armor stepped with practiced ease, their boots hitting the frost-hardened earth in solid cadence. The sigil of roaring lion flared on every breast, burnished so well it reflected the faint gleam of smoldering campfires and blazed like sparks in the darkness.
