Tension gripped the four individuals.
Perched upon the highlands, Resarite held command as the overarching strategist.
Nearby, Milan and Venice's Governors, inexperienced in the art of war, stood merely as spectators.
Clad in a shimmering silver armor, Nora, astride her horse, gripped her lance firmly.
The stirrups clanged with each movement, a testament to her readiness.
Alongside her in the valley, waiting for the signal to charge, was Marquis Rolf.
Unlike those driven by cowardice or fear, the Marquis was a feudal noble with a sharp business acumen, fully aware of his stance and status in the heat of battle.
His white steed, restless, repeatedly scraped the hard ground with its hooves, mirroring the Marquis's own anxiety.
He frequently questioned Nora about when they would attack.
Nora's response was always the same: they awaited Resarite's command, for he was the true commander of the battlefield.
