Night had descended over Verranus, but it was anything but calm.
Since the Pontiff's decree to purge the heretics and bring righteous judgment upon the so called rebel army, the entire northern quarter of the capital had ignited with holy urgency. What should have been silence under the moon had instead become a symphony of preparation. Steel clashing, horses stamping, commands shouted and echoed with unwavering fervor.
Torches lined the inner walls in rigid precision, casting flickering halos of orange light over polished helms, raised banners, and armored rows of the faithful. The scent of oil, sweat, iron, and incense permeated the air. Divine warfare soaked in ritual.
The north gate district had transformed into a living war machine.
