Leon stood atop a towering war chariot, the royal army of Strongson arrayed behind him. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers stretched across the vast plains, their armor glinting coldly in the fading light, battle standards snapping sharply in the wind. The army resembled a colossal beast, long dormant but now roused, steadily advancing toward the eastern frontier.
This march was no single-day endeavor. The journey from the capital to the eastern border was a lengthy one, casting a foreboding shadow of impending war over the entire East. Leon understood well that the movement of such a vast force was itself a silent threat. By personally leading this army, he intended not only to command the campaign but also to send an unequivocal message to the eastern nations: Strongson is unstoppable, and surrender is their only option.
The sight of the marching army left every village and town along the way in awe. Waves of infantry, iron cavalry, and siege engines dominated the wide roads, with endless supply convoys flowing like a tide. Every soldier was impeccably equipped, disciplined, and carried a look of cold determination.
At the core of this force was Strongson's Royal Cavalry—the Dragon Legion. Clad in black-scaled armor and mounted on towering warhorses, their very steps seemed to make the earth tremble. Their presence swept through like a chill wind, leaving unease in their wake.
The army crossed hills and valleys, following ancient trade routes toward the East. Riding his warhorse, Blackflame, Leon's gaze was fixed on the road ahead, his expression icy and unwavering. Though the war had yet to begin, the air around him seemed to carry the scent of inevitable victory.
In the capital city of Eldenia, Whitehold, King Edmund convened an emergency council in the great hall. He stood before a massive map, his brow furrowed as he stared at the red lines tracing the advance of Strongson's army.
As news of the army's movement spread, the shadow of war loomed over the East. The border outposts of Eldenia were the first to learn of the threat. A messenger arrived at the palace with an urgent report: "Strongson's army is on the march, less than three weeks from our eastern border."
"Their force is larger than we anticipated, and their speed is beyond our expectations," murmured Greve, the frontline commander, his tone heavy with unease.
Around the table, the generals wore varied expressions. Some advocated for mobilizing their forces immediately to build defensive lines along the border. Others suggested avoiding direct confrontation, seeking to buy time through diplomacy.
"Time is no longer on our side," an aged general said, rapping his knuckles on the map. "They're closing in. We must act now."
Meanwhile, in the kingdom of Horas, King Eldemeyer paced anxiously. He had a sharper insight into Leon's ambitions than most. Turning to his ministers, he declared, "This isn't a mere invasion. This is Leon's bid to cement his dominion—a conquest aimed not just at Eldenia but at consuming the entirety of the East."
Horas had a relatively robust military within the eastern coalition, but its resources were limited. Eldemeyer knew that without allies, they would not withstand Strongson's forces. He dispatched envoys to Eldenia, offering Horas' support to resist the looming threat.
Farther east in Mathur, the young King Kragg wrestled with growing unease. His kingdom, situated at the farthest edge of the three nations, stood as the final bulwark. Standing on the palace balcony, he gazed toward the distant mountains, his mind a storm of conflicting thoughts. "War is inevitable," he murmured. "We cannot sit idly by."
Mathur's archers were renowned for their deadly precision, and Kragg understood Eldenia's critical role in shielding Mathur. If Eldenia fell, Mathur would soon face the same fate. He promptly sent emissaries to Eldenia, pledging Mathur's military support.
As Strongson's shadow stretched further eastward, the fate of the three kingdoms grew increasingly intertwined. With the war drums beating louder, alliances and preparations began to take shape, for the survival of the East now depended on unity against the encroaching storm.