Alpheo sat tall on his horse, gazing up at the clear morning sky with a quiet, simmering anticipation. The day had finally come, the long-expected battle on the horizon. The scouts had brought word that the Herculian army was closing in, now only half a dozen kilometers out. By Alpheo's measure, they would arrive by early afternoon, perhaps even sooner.
He turned his gaze from the sky down to his army, spread across the camps, now bustling with activity as the soldiers gathered their arms and secured their marching formations. The rhythm of preparation—the sound of armor clinking, of horses shifting, of quiet commands being barked to ready the ranks—filled the air. Alpheo felt a steady pulse of determination rise within him. Every step they'd taken, every night spent under the stars, every stone cast against the walls of Arduronaven had led to this day. It was finally time to face their enemy head-on.
