The hooves never stopped.
They beat against the earth like war drums, endless and deafening, rising and falling in rhythm with the tension curled deep in General Sun's chest. The road south was a blur of dust and pine shadow, but he hardly saw it anymore. His focus was narrow. Sharp. Distant.
They had ridden through the night without pause.
There had been no time for ceremony when the orders were given. No lavish send-off, no rallying cheers. The elite riders of Daiyu had been called upon, and so they rode—two thousand strong, every one of them drawn from the eastern barracks, trained in war but unprepared for what lay ahead.
The southern wind carried the scent of scorched wood and something fouler still. It grew stronger with each mile they passed.
General Sun sat tall in the saddle, his armor immaculate, his sword at his hip, but his eyes betrayed a man already measuring loss.
