Dawn came pale and uncertain, a thin wash of gray that clung to the low hills like breath held too long. Fog lay heavy over the road—thick enough to blur banners, soften armor, mute sound. It was the kind of morning commanders disliked—not because it invited mistakes, but because it hid the truth until it was too late.
Killan Valmird rode with only two at his back: Harlan to his left, silent as ever, and Santi a half-length behind, eyes constantly moving. No banners. No column. No escort beyond what necessity demanded. War lamps were absent; the light came pale and natural, filtered through low fog that clung to the fields and the crooked roofs of a small border town ahead.
Three leagues off the main road to Athax.
