The wind shifted.
It came suddenly, sweeping through the plains with the sharp chill.
Alaric stood outside his command tent, his cloak moving in the breeze, eyes focused on the horizon. The faintest trail of dust rose in the distance, not from wind, but from movement.
Too much movement.
He'd felt it long before he saw it. Something in the air had changed, the same quiet tension that always warned him when danger was near.
He turned as heavy footsteps approached. Carlden was striding toward him, breath uneven, armor clinking softly.
"General," he called out, saluting. "Scouts have returned. We've sighted them."
Alaric's jaw clenched. "How many?"
Carlden hesitated, then said, "At least twenty thousand. Twice the number that we battled with before."
