The early morning mist had not yet lifted from the low hills when the outriders returned with breathless haste.
Their mounts, foamed at the flanks, bore dust-caked riders with tight grips on their reins and fire in their eyes.
The forward camp—pitched atop the ridge overlooking the village of Tournelle—erupted into controlled activity as horns gave three sharp calls.
Julius, still in his campaign armor, was already rising from his chair when the first scout saluted sharply.
"Speak."
"Enemy force, my Lord,"
the scout said.
"Eight to ten thousand, by our count. Francian levy, under Lord Guilliame de Tournelle. They're not retreating—they're marching."
Sabellus blinked.
"They're sallying out? In open terrain?"
"That's suicide,"
Caetrax muttered.
Julius's expression remained impassive.
He turned toward the edge of the tent and pulled aside the canvas flap.
