The sun had only just begun to climb over the jagged horizon of Iron Hearth, yet the South Paddock already resembled a disturbed hornets' nest. Hundreds of young men—ranging from low-ranking knights and infantry survivors of the Northveil massacre to desperate civilians seeking the fabled two gold coins—stood shoulder to shoulder behind the heavily guarded perimeter lines.
Behind the iron fences, reinforced by soldiers armed with the latest Sudrath Spears, the air didn't ring with the sound of machinery. Instead, it was filled with an unnatural, haunting howl of rushing wind.
"Are you certain they won't die before they even get a chance to board the 'Dragonfly,' Arvid?" Rianor stood on the high observation platform, his arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed the field below.
