Dawn broke over the edge of the world, where the sun rose from behind the far-stretching mountains like a golden titan awakening from slumber. Its light poured across the land in rivers of molten gold, touching the earth with the promise of a new age.Across its golden path, flocks of birds carved their journey, wings gleaming as they ventured toward distant, unseen realms. Above, the clouds drifted like wandering spirits—shifting, sculpting, and whispering to the wind.Below, the world answered in splendor. Vast mountains crowned with emerald forests rose in majesty, their leaves shimmering like jewels beneath the light of the morning. The earth breathed with life, as if the very soul of creation stirred within its green heart.
In the shadowed valley between the towering mountains, an army encamped—a sea of tents scattered across the waking earth. The dawn still yet to grace the silver armor of the gathered host.Soldiers stirred from slumber, their movements breaking the silence of the morn. Some washed the weariness from their faces in cold mountain water; others paced or murmured in quiet counsel. The air was thick with the scent of steel and resolve. Soon they would march—away from this valley, toward another destiny waiting beneath the rising sun.
Then, as the first light of dawn crowned the trees, a soldier's gaze caught movement beneath the rising sun. From the forest's edge emerged three riders.The one at the center rode a steed of purest white, radiant beneath the morning glow. To his left came a rider astride a deep-brown charger, and to his right, another upon a black horse that seemed woven from shadow itself. They advanced at a measured pace—neither swift nor sluggish—as though time itself bent to the rhythm of their approach.
The soldier's cry echoed through the camp. "General!"
From his tent emerged the man himself—Arthor Ryn. Broad of shoulder, his hand resting with calm readiness upon the hilt of his sword. His hair, long and streaked in silver and white, framed a face carved by years of battle and wisdom. A gleaming silver armor encased him, and a flowing cape marked him as one of high command.
Arthor's eyes narrowed toward the horizon, where the three riders approached. A faint smile touched his lips—recognition gleamed there. He knew who came.The riders drew to a halt before the camp, their steeds stamping and neighing upon the earth. The man at their center dismounted first, the white horse tossing its mane as if sharing its master's nobility."Greetings, Prince Argon," Arthor said, bowing slightly. "It is an honor to serve beside you once more."Argon Vale, Prince of Tinicium, returned the gesture with a measured smile. "And greetings to you, Arthor. I see your loyalty to my father remains unbroken."The prince's armor shone with regal craft—silver chased with gold along its edges, a lion's head emblazoned upon his chestplate in gilded relief. His hair was like gold, and the grey cloak at his back, trimmed with gold at the edges rippled like a banner of dawn. Young still, yet tempered by the weight of destiny, he stood as one born to command.
Argon's voice carried a calm warmth, a faint smile upon his lips. "Still, Arthor," he said, "it is good to see you again."Arthor's answering grin was lined with years and battle-scars. "And I, my prince, am grateful that the king has sent you to stand with us in this final war. I knew the three of you would come. Your bond is iron. Since the days of your youth, when you sparred in the palace gardens, I saw it—the mark of brothers bound by fate.""Indeed," came a steady voice. It was Imrald Enacnor, the rider of the brown horse. His hair, black in colour and his royal-blue coat, trimmed with gold. A warrior-mage of renown, Imrald served as the prince's advisor—but more truly, he was his friend, a companion forged in the fires of childhood.Then came a low chuckle from the rider of the black steed. "Well," said Leanodar Grot, "even a prince needs someone close to keep him alive."
Leanodar's armor gleamed with silver sheen, overlaid by a dark mantle edged in grey. Upon his chest, the emblem of the lion was etched in silver, sign of Tinicium. His bearing was unmistakable—discipline in every motion, loyalty in every glance. Though sworn as the prince's protector, he was far more—a brother by choice, bound not by duty, but by trust and shared blood of battle.
Arthor's voice carried a tone of quiet command. "Come with me to my tent," he said. "There is much we must discuss."
The three companions followed him through the camp, their cloaks trailing in the chill mountain air. Inside the general's tent, the scent of parchment and steel lingered. Arthor spread a worn map upon the oaken table, its surface marked with lines of war and the dust of many journeys. The men gathered close, eyes fixed upon the inked valleys and crimson marks of battle.
"My forces are preparing to march," Arthor began, his voice steady. "The plan was to rendezvous here, then advance to the main encampment together. But a new report has come from the scouts." He paused, tracing a gloved finger across the map. "A small town lies nearby—Nobium. Three days past, it was sighted by a host of Drols, more than a hundred strong. They move swiftly and without mercy."Before he could continue, Imrald spoke, his tone sharp with intuition. "You mean for us to ride ahead—defend the town if it still stands, or save what we can if the attack has begun."Arthor gave a curt nod. "Aye. Exactly so."Argon straightened. "Then it is settled. We ride for Nobium. Once it is secured, we'll rejoin you at the main base.""I'll leave a hundred of my men under your command," Arthor added.Argon inclined his head in agreement. "That will suffice."