The meeting took place in the open field beyond the pass, far enough into Western territory that the air itself felt claimed.
No walls. No canvas. Just trampled grass, cold wind, and the faint slope of land that would funnel blood downhill if it came to that.
The West came heavy with color and sigils, standards planted deep, armor polished as if shine could substitute for certainty. Their formation was broad, confident, meant to be seen from afar.
Across from them, the Southern and Northern lines held steady.
Killan rode at the center, banner snapping behind him, dark and unadorned. To his right, Harlan sat motionless, reins tight in one gloved fist. To his left, Asta's presence anchored the formation, broad-shouldered, weapons strapped within easy reach. The rest of Killan's council just a pace away from the front. Their banners flew behind them, fewer, darker, unyielding.
No one dismounted.
Every man present was ready to kill.
