The march toward Hektor's stronghold was filled with a heavy, quiet intensity. Every step felt like a drumbeat of war, each soldier's footfall echoing in the stillness of the night. Lyan led the way, his black cloak billowing in the wind, the weight of the coming battle resting heavily on his shoulders but not slowing his stride. Behind him, the Valkyries and his army followed in formation, their movements synchronized, their faces hardened with the knowledge of what was to come.
The stronghold loomed larger as they drew closer, its stone walls casting long, dark shadows over the land. Torches flickered along the battlements, and the faint silhouette of soldiers could be seen manning the walls. But there was no confidence in their movements, no air of defiance. They were merely bodies stationed there out of duty, a final, desperate attempt to protect what was already lost.
