The march began in the early morning, the army of Byzeth moved like a beast across the land, hundreds of feet trampling the dirt roads.
The banners flew high above the mass of soldiers, each emblazoned with the royal crest of Byzeth, fluttering in the wind.
The clang of armor, the snorting of horses, and the rhythmic march of boots filled the air, creating a near-hypnotic sound as they made their way north.
On the first day, the weather was mild. The early autumn sun only warmed their backs, and the land stretched out in shades of brown and gold, the last remnants of summer clinging to the trees.
The soldiers marched steadily, conserving their energy. Aric, mounted on his black stallion, remained near the front, his armor gleaming beneath the sun.
He was silent, observing everything, from the soldiers' formations to the way supplies were distributed during the occasional stops.
