*
Oberon had never fancied himself as a conqueror. That sort of name was not fitting for him. He liked to think of himself as a liberator, who was freeing the valley from the clutches of Alpha Clark.
But when he watched his army marching behind him, sixty thousand men who would live and die for him, he supposed that he could be regarded as a conqueror.
They had set off at dawn, and they moved through the plains like a swarm of locusts, tearing everything in their path down as they marched. Oberon led the way, sat atop a great white stallion who glimmered in the faint sunlight. His mane was pushed back, and he looked as majestic as any steed to have ever marched through the ShadowLands. Oberon had chosen him specifically because of how he looked, and how powerful the horse was. He didn
