The banners of House Bracum fluttered in the breeze, their figure cutting a proud line through the road as Lord Xanthios' contingent finally joined the royal host. The morning sun was bright, casting golden light over the rolling field just outside the city of Florium, now a sea of tents, pavilions, fires, and soldiers moving like ants.
Lucius rode silently behind Lord Xanthios, his sharp eyes drinking in every detail. Despite himself, he couldn't help but marvel at the sheer scale of it. The royal host—Alpheo's pride, gathered from loyalist lords and sworn men—stretched far, rows of canvas roofs and standard-bearing poles swaying like tall grass.
He began counting, if only to busy his mind in the wait. Each cluster of tents, the size of each division, the way the soldiers moved and the fires burned—all small pieces of a larger picture.
Two thousand five hundred men, give or take, though it looked more than less.
That was his tally.
