The enemy camp was not far, just a short march upriver, where the water curved like a great mirrored serpent between the plains.
Two mirrored armies, two mirrored brothers, waiting for the same dawn to decide which reflection would shatter first.
The scouts had spoken of twelve thousand under the rebel banner. Alpheo had yet to see the full host himself, but the sprawling camp below left little room for doubt. Even from this distance he could make out the the dark clusters of tents and the slow crawl of smoke from countless fires. It was an army worthy of the War Emperor's bloodline, one that might have made their father proud if it weren't marching to spill the blood of his sons.
Hope he dies in the mud, like the old bastard....
He turned his gaze from the sight, letting it drift over the open fields between them. Green now,but by the morrow, that same grass would drink deep of red. He could already see it in his mind.
