Finally they reached the edge of the known world, where the breath of civilization ended and the wilderness began to dream of conquest once more.
The outpost rose from the blackened earth like a scar: all stone and steel, spears and silence. Its towers pierced the red-streaked sky, their tips glinting faintly under the dying sun. Ballistae loomed like sleeping giants upon the walls, each aimed at the dark horizon where mountains bled fire into mist.
The air was thick with salt and smoke, the kind that clung to armor and memory alike. Soldiers patrolled in disciplined silence, their boots striking rhythm against the flagstones. These were not courtly guards or ceremonial knights, these were war men, carved by survival, tempered by fire.
When the imperial procession arrived, the gates opened with the groan of chains and the hiss of steam.
"Your Majesties," came the voice that could cut through battle.
