The Ashlands spread before them, bleak and scarred, the blackened ground still warm in places from the flow of old volcanic rivers.
Emberhold loomed in the far distance, a fortress of obsidian spires that glowed faintly red at dusk.
To any other lord, the sight would inspire hesitation. To Caedrion, it was simply another equation to solve.
He stood at the forward edge of his encampment, armored in his polished plate armor, the leylines etched into his cuirass pulsing faintly with rustlight.
His men labored behind him, tens of thousands of ferrondel levies and conscripts already falling into the rhythm of work.
Shovels scraped, axes rang against timber, ropes strained as carts delivered beams and palisades.
"Deeper," Caedrion ordered, pointing with his gloved hand to the freshly cut earth. "Four cubits at least. Reinforce the walls with timber. I want trenches that will not collapse under bombardment."
The officers barked his commands, and men clambered to obey.
