Day six of eight arrived with frost.
Liam watched his breath mist in the predawn air, a visible reminder that winter was approaching and they were running out of time in more ways than one. The army had been marching for eighteen hours straight, pushing through the night to make up time lost to terrain and exhaustion.
The desertions from two nights ago had been minimal—maybe a hundred soldiers total, less than one percent of the fighting force. But those who remained were different now.
Harder. More committed. The speech had burned away the casual believers and left only those willing to march into hell with open eyes.
"Forty miles to Sanctum Lux," Lieutenant Zara said, appearing beside him with her ever-present dispatch scrolls. Her face was gaunt with exhaustion, dark circles under her eyes. "At current pace, we'll reach visual range of the capital by tomorrow evening."
Tomorrow evening. Day seven.
Which meant day eight for the actual assault.
