A thousand and three hundred men roared toward the heavens, the sound of their voices crashing like thunder across the sandstone walls of the arena.
Javelins struck against breastplates and shields in a rhythmic clamor.
Spittle flew as their howls split the air, beards soaked, eyes alight with fire, boots stomping in unison, pressing the dry sand deeper beneath their heels with every pounding step.
This was the full might of the Royal Army, assembled not for war, but for something almost as sacred. They stood, row after row, shoulder to shoulder, a living sea of discipline. Their armor gleamed under the soft autumn sun, burnished gold and dull iron catching the light in shifting waves.
They had gathered not for conquest, but for legacy.
Each legion had its task, until now.
The First had remained in the capital, keeping order and parading its strength to the citizens alongside the city garrison.
