The first sign was not a sound, but a silence.
The constant hum of the Awakened's work — the subtle shifting of stone, the whisper of woven light — seemed to pause, as though the very essence around the bastion held its breath, full of expectation. Then, from the north, a sound that was neither natural nor magical, but purely, cruelly mortal, sliced through the morning air.
A clear and solitary note — the call of a cavalry trumpet, distant yet undeniable. It was a sound of order, of hierarchy, the herald of the enormous war machine now turning its gaze toward their little rock.
Inside the command tent, the note froze all conversation. Maggie's head snapped up from the map, her eyes meeting Rhelas's. His expression was unreadable, but the faint tightening of the skin around his eyes betrayed a flicker of… annoyance? The delicate, terrifying ballet of his illusions was about to be trampled by a parade of elephants.
