Corvin stood atop a sloped ridge just beyond the sightline of Verranus' outer walls. Beneath him, a valley bristled with the quiet movements of an army. Four thousand undead, all covenant bound. Clad in the tattered but unmistakable regalia of Holy Verrenate. Purifiers, battle clerics, sanctified soldiers, and flame marked priests. All once sworn to divine light, now repurposed under his banner.
Each step they took was measured and unnervingly precise, a mockery of the sacred drills they once followed in life. Shields bore visible scripture, holy symbols hung from necks with reverence twisted into irony. Their discipline was intact, from a past life stubbornly etched into new purpose.
"We camp here," Corvin ordered aloud.
He watched them move with perfect rhythm, tents being staked more for theater than shelter, supply wagons unloaded to simulate logistics they no longer required. The dead did not eat. They did not sleep. But the show was a message to the sanctified council.
