The morning of their departure was unlike the last two.
Gone were the endless lines of soldiers stretching from wall to horizon. Instead, only a fraction of the host assembled in the courtyard of the arena: SS-ranked veterans whose names carried weight like storms, handpicked S-ranked squads whose confidence was written in the steadiness of their steps, and a handful of volunteers who had stood forward even as others lowered their heads.
No horns blared, no fanfare accompanied their march. This was not a spectacle for morale. It was a blade unsheathed in silence.
Mia Frostine walked at the head of the column, frost mist clinging to her cloak despite the morning heat. To her left strode Seraphine, spear gleaming like a shard of lightning, while Nock moved quietly on her right, his staff heavy with sanctified radiance. Behind them fell the chosen S-rankers—Hiro and his friends among them.
