[POV: Dhaelon]
The world was a beautiful, silent tapestry, and Dhaelon was the weaver.
He rode at the head of his army, a black-clad ghost on a pale horse, and watched his creation move. Ten thousand men, a river of silent, black-armored bodies, flowed over the rolling hills of the Velhessan borderlands. They did not march. They flowed. Their footsteps were a single, unified, rhythmic beat, a perfect, metronomic heartbeat for the new world he was building.
There was no chatter. No coughing. No grunts of exertion or complaints of weariness. There was only the soft, percussive sound of ten thousand pairs of boots on damp earth, the whisper of leather, and the faint, almost inaudible hum of a single, unified consciousness.
His consciousness.
