The moon hung heavy in the starless sky, its silvery glow illuminating the encampment nestled in the shadow of a rugged hillside.
Fabian's hidden force, a formidable detachment of hardened soldiers, camped in ordered rows of tents. Weapons glinted under the faint light, and patrols moved with disciplined precision, their armored forms casting long shadows on the uneven terrain.
At the center of the encampment stood Knight Jerome, the eldest and most loyal of Warlord Fabian's warriors. Clad in darkened steel adorned with the Warlord's insignia, Jerome exuded an aura of command. His weathered face bore the lines of countless battles, and his sharp, gray eyes scanned the horizon with a quiet intensity.
"The men are ready, Sir Jerome," reported a younger knight, standing at attention before him. "Supplies have been secured, and the scouts have found no signs of enemy movement."
