The northern planes lay wide and white beneath a low iron sky, broken only by the dark lines of men advancing in ordered silence. Banners snapped in the wind - wolves, ravens, old sigils long thought ceremonial until now.
Prince Dane had chosen his ground poorly.
Or so it seemed.
He stood at the center of his formation, armor polished to a mirrored gleam that caught the pale winter light, hands resting loosely on the pommel of his sword. His posture was wrong for a man about to meet a northern charge - too loose, too patient, as though he were waiting for something other than victory.
Around him, his commanders leaned close, voices low and tense.
"They're holding their eastern line open," one said urgently. "We should swing cavalry through before they close it."
Dane did not look at the valley. His gaze remained fixed on the northern banners, watching the way their lines breathed together.
