He trudged through a forest of silken standards, the banners of the Yarzat lords fluttering in the high noon wind. They were beautiful treacherous things, each piece of cloth telling a tale of ancient glory that had no choice but to submit to one of lower station, either by might of sword or fake comfort of a rule that changed and yet stayed the same.
If such a thing was even possible.
The sun beat down from a cloudless sky, its rays seemingly dying as they struck the obsidian-black paint of the Prince's plate. Alpheo raised his head, his gaze sharp and calculating as he cataloged the houses gathered for the slaughter. He recognized the Black Stag of Damaris' house, the Megioduroli, whose lords lands would be the first to be raided if the Bastion fell, though raids would be sent even if it did not.
