The iron-shod hooves of the black stallion struck the cobblestones of the capital's main thoroughfare with the rhythmic finality of a funeral drum. A thick, suffocating silence gripped the city of Astraia, a stark contrast to the jeers and mocking laughter that had followed Prince Constantine when he had departed weeks prior. The air was heavy with the scent of ozone from a passing morning mist and the metallic tang of the thousands of armored men marching in perfect, terrifying unison.
At the head of the column, Constantine sat straight-backed, his obsidian armor reflecting the pale sunlight like a dark mirror. In his right hand, he gripped a heavy wooden pole from which dangled the tattered, blood-stained banners of the Orestes Kingdom. The golden hawk of Orestes, once a symbol of imp
