The gates of Dawnhaven had never known such a sound.
The clamor began as a distant murmur, a low thrum carried on the summer air.
But as the army crested the final hill and descended toward the walls, it rose to a roar, a tidal wave of voices that shook the very stones of the city.
Banners snapped in the wind. Dawnhaven's colors, once tattered from siege, now flew proud alongside the standards of Caedrion's regiments.
Twenty thousand strong had marched out.
Fewer returned, but those who did came back as titans.
Their boots, still blackened by ash, struck the road in rhythm, rifles gleaming, sabers clattering at their sides.
At their head rode Caedrion Ferrondel, his horse armored in steel and mud alike.
Ash still streaked his cloak, his face was pale with sleeplessness, yet his eyes burned with the same fire that had shattered Emberhold's barrier.
The people saw him not as a man, but as a conqueror, an emperor carved from flesh and will.
