The fourth morning broke colder than the last — not merely in temperature, but in spirit.
A dull, oppressive silence gripped the valleys of south-eastern Francia, stretching from the charred forests near High Thandor to the wind-swept ridgelines beyond La Morienne.
No battle drums echoed.
No horns sounded.
No thunder of warhorses marked the dawn.
Yet within the camp of Romanus, tension thrummed like a drawn bowstring.
The legions had been still for three days.
Too still.
They were trained for endurance, for patience, for iron discipline — but there was only so long blood could remain unspilled before it boiled.
Men sharpened blades that needed no sharpening.
Drilled formations until their hands, and feet blistered.
Scouts begged to range deeper, to do something, anything.
The warriors of the Iron Cavalry rode circles around the camp, hungry, twitching, eager to be loosed.
