Six weeks had passed since the audience with Henry. Luak's army of five thousand was already marching in front of Mirante, filling the White Merchant Road while making their way towards the West of Stahl, towards the Cold Iron Mines. Despite their tattered clothes and dull weapons, their eyes were filled with arrogance and confidence, enough to ward off the bitter cold and hunger striking their malnourished bodies.
The sight Luak's army on the horizon filled the soldiers on Mirante's walls with a mixture of both anger and dread. The clanging of their weapons was like a sword piercing through their chests, testing their faith in Stahl's strength and their own self esteem. They tightened their grips on their weapons, fighting the urge to shoot down those smug invaders and tear down the fluttering banner of Luak.
