The sun hung high in the sky, its golden rays cascading over the marching host like a silent herald of their journey. It was as if the heavens themselves acknowledged the advance of the 1,650 men that now made up the Royal Army—an army raised without the aid of any noble banners, a force bound not by feudal ties but by the will of the crown itself.
The earth trembled beneath the rhythmic pounding of 300 horses, their hooves striking against the hardened dirt road with unwavering purpose. Alongside them, 1,350 footmen marched ahead their boots shaking dust up.
The clinking of chainmail, the creak of leather, and the occasional neigh of a restless steed blended together into a symphony of war—a song that carried across the fields as they advanced toward Florium, the city where the noble levies would gather before merging with the royal host.
