The training ground hummed with activity as Lyan surveyed his new forces. Four thousand soldiers stood at attention, their uniforms crisp, their movements sharp. The infantry formed neat lines, their spears glinting under the midday sun. Lyan's sharp eyes took in their precise formations and steady discipline, a faint smile tugging at his lips. This was a force he could shape, a spearhead capable of piercing through any opposition.
He moved to the archers next, their bows strung and quivers brimming with arrows. They practiced rapid-fire techniques, their arrows streaking through the air to thud against distant targets with satisfying precision. Among them, a grizzled veteran barked corrections, his keen eye catching even the smallest mistakes.
"Steady your hand, soldier. It's not about speed but precision," the veteran said, adjusting a younger archer's stance. Lyan nodded approvingly; the man knew his craft.
