The moon hung high in the night sky, casting its cold, silver light over the quiet landscape. Shadows stretched long and dark, cloaking the figures of Gerric and his 300 soldiers as they moved like phantoms through the night. The only sound was the faint rustling of grass beneath cautious footsteps and the distant chirping of crickets.
"Keep low," Gerric hissed, his voice barely above a whisper. He crouched as he moved, his sharp eyes darting between the faint glimmers of light from the enemy's campfires in the distance. His soldiers followed suit, their weapons clutched tightly, their breath controlled and quiet.
The men advanced slowly. The weight of their chainmail and padded armor seemed heavier in the silence, every scrape or clink threatening to betray their presence.
