The Valthorn Army of four hundred marched with solemn purpose.
A tide of men and steel, their formation stretched across the rugged road—warhorses flanking both sides in neat columns, with a dense block of infantry occupying the center. The rhythm of their synchronized footsteps echoed like war drums, making the very earth tremble beneath them.
Every step was thick with tension. Every breath carried weight.
Most soldiers were modestly equipped—many wielded only a basic iron-forged sword, their bodies wrapped in dull brown leather armor made from the hides of Iron Hide Boars. There was no polish, no glamour. Only raw determination.
Above them, the sky was a stark, uninterrupted blue—cloudless and serene.
It was the kind of day meant for picnics and quiet walks through blooming fields, for laughter and warmth with family. Yet here they were, marching into the jaws of war.
At the vanguard rode Damien, his back straight, his eyes focused like twin obsidian blades.
