The morning of the departure was grey, a thick, damp mist clinging to the stone walls of the Thompson estate. The air was cold, biting through the woolen cloaks of the soldiers who had gathered in the main courtyard. It was a hive of controlled, grim activity.
Hundreds of men in the black and silver armor of the Thompson Army moved with efficiency.
They were loading heavy wooden crates onto a long line of sturdy wagons. The crates were marked with the seal of the household—Marissa's medicines, dried rations, blankets, and weapons. The horses stamped their hooves, their breath forming white clouds in the chill air, sensing the tension of the coming march.
