Vhomo stood proudly at the crest of the hill, the wind tugging at the ends of his braided hair, the pride of being in command settling on his shoulders like the chainmail draped across them. His armor was simple but gleaming—sturdy mail over padded linen, a conical helmet fitted tight to his brow, and thick woolen trousers bound in boiled leather.
Nothing ornate, but costly all the same. Thrazanie merchants had charged a king's ransom for such protection, and his father had paid it—albeit with a grimace—knowing it was a necessity for his youngest son's first command.
Below him, spread out across the valley like worms squirming beneath the gaze of the sun, stood the enemy. Barely three thousand if that—young unbloodied and half-starved herdsmen wielding spears and round shields of hide. No proper armor. No visible command structure. No discipline in their lines. Just desperation painted across their faces and etched into their posture.
Vhomo's lip curled in contempt.
