The spring thaw came late that year.
In the mountain passes between the Sarmatian front and the northern plains, the snow broke reluctantly, retreating in dirty, jagged seams.
The rivers ran thick and brown with meltwater, and the road was a churned mess of mud and shattered ice.
Still, the banners of the Visigoth Empire cut through the cold air, defiant and bright against the gloom.
Medellin Valdesca rode at the head of her host — what remained of it that is.
Thirty thousand had marched into the Honor Kingdom with her.
Barely half that number marched on with her into Sarmatia, they had of course been reinforced but then, the war with the Sarmatia Imperium was a harsh fight.
She lost thousands of soldiers.
Not from defeat.
From slaughter.
The resistance against them had fought with desperation never surrendering the fight until the last man had fallen, in the cities they captured even women and children assaulted her men in an attempt to repel the invaders.
