The third dawn over Almorr broke beneath a sky of smoke-stained gold, the rising sun barely visible through the haze left by two days of fire and blood.
The inner walls of the Royal Castle stood cracked and splintered from the constant bombardment, their once-pristine white stone now scorched black, streaked with ash and blood.
Bente stood at the head of the assembled Romanus forces, Carthaginian rebels at his left, Parthian auxiliaries at his right.
The once-divided armies had, in the crucible of conquest, become something unified.
Each man and woman knew this was it — the final day.
By nightfall, Ramie would be no more, swallowed up completely by the Victorious Romans.
"Final formations, shields up!"
Bente's voice rang out as the battering rams were hauled into place against the splintered gates of the castle's walls.
