Day three of the march dawned with rain.
Not the gentle spring showers of Liam's memories, but cold, driving sheets that turned the roads to mud and made every step a battle against the earth itself.
The army pressed forward regardless, because stopping meant falling behind schedule, and falling behind schedule meant death.
Liam rode near the center of the column now, his cloak heavy with water, watching supply wagons sink axle-deep into muck that required teams of soldiers to drag them free. Each delay was calculated, measured, added to the growing tally of hours lost.
They were four hours behind schedule.
Four hours closer to the Cathedral completing its ritual.
Four hours closer to twenty-one divine champions manifesting to purge demonkind from existence.
