Morning broke over the city of Arduronaven, bathing its grey stone walls in a pale, unforgiving light. The guards were out in full force, every inch of the ramparts bristling with men. Some leaned over the edge, squinting toward the horizon where the enemy encampment stirred with ominous activity. Others hurried back and forth along the battlements, carrying baskets of stones, bundles of arrows, and heavy jugs of water to quench the thirst of those who would soon face the onslaught.
Down in the streets, the mood was no better. Civilians peeked from shuttered windows or huddled in doorways, their eyes wide with fear. Soldiers gathered in clusters, their nervous chatter betraying their mounting dread. Whispers of doubt spread like wildfire—rumors that the city was surrounded, that no aid would come had reached the ears of every men.
On the wall, Lord Vroghios moved among his soldiers, his polished armor gleaming delivering words of encouragement
