The high route, a trail above the valley shifted beneath one hundred pairs of boots, though the sound they made was closer to a handful of men than a full company.
Cedd had spent weeks drilling noise discipline into them until it became instinct. Every step placed before weight followed. Every buckle checked before it could strike metal. Every loose piece of equipment controlled before gravity handled it instead.
Three and a half hours before dawn, moving through wet autumn foliage, one hundred armed soldiers produced less noise than a careless sentry on gravel.
Cedd moved at the head of the pack, reading the terrain through weak starlight filtering through the trees. The knowledge about their target filtering through his mind.
The Ashen Company had worked these foothills for years. Long enough to establish routines, long enough for employers to trust them.
