Near the site, a formation of Dreadclaws trained relentlessly, their fur damp with sweat. Clad in padded gambesons and toughened leather breastplates strapped tightly over their chiseled frames, they sparred and drilled with the vigor of wolves. Each shout and clash echoed discipline, preparing them for wars to come.
Kaelor turned his gaze forward.
In the distance, near the gentle slope that led to the outer gate, five wagons stood arranged in a line. Guarding them was a unit of Bloodstone Archers, silent and composed.
They wore black breastplates and vambraces, their hoods casting shadows over their stoic faces. Thick furs padded their shoulders, the only comfort against the early morning chill. Unlike the others, they had no gambesons. Phlip and his aids had devoted all their efforts to outfitting the frontline Guardsmen.
