The snow falling over the Alps-Draconia Pass had long ceased to be a symbol of winter's purity. A thick, viscous crimson began to seep into the layers of ice, creating a macabre tapestry as the Silver Eagle Cavalry collided for the first time with the steel wall of House Sudrath. The blare of the war trumpets from Marcus's side was shrill and high-pitched, an ancient call to glory that was almost instantly drowned out by the discordant hum of technology that bypassed their era by centuries.
"CHARGE! CRUSH THE TRAITORS!" Marcus bellowed, his sword unsheathed and pointed toward the heavens, radiating a magnificent but hollow golden aura.
