The air at the border was dry, clean, and sharp with altitude. The mountain wind slid over the stone ridges silent and cold despite the summer barely arriving. Damian Lyon stood at the edge of the outpost wall, one gloved hand braced against the ancient railing, the other resting on the hilt of a ceremonial blade he never used but wore when he was in military inspection. The troops behind him were in formation, distant enough to give him silence, close enough to move the moment he said the word.
Donin's flags still flew in the distance with pride, for now.
"Majesty," Halbrecht approached with the quiet thud of armored boots softened by embedded silencing runes. "Surveillance confirms: No new convoys from the coast. No shipments from Pais. They're burning their reserves."
Damian didn't turn. "How long?"
