It was the ninety-fifth day.
Ninety-five days since the first horn had cried war and the ground had drunk the blood of friend and foe alike. Ninety-five days since the sun had risen over a princedom uncertain, and men had strapped on steel not knowing whether they'd see another dawn. And now—on this last day—it shone with a brilliance so warm, so forgiving, that one could almost believe the gods themselves had forgotten how close to ruin they all had danced.
Outside the great canvas pavilion where the war's final terms were to be sealed, the royal army stood in rigid rows: 2,700 men , their faces bronzed by hardship and glory.
It stood proud, victorious—and alive. And there, beneath the open sky, they waited. They waited for the men in that great tent to lay quill to parchment and seal the tale that would echo for generations. A tale of victory and triumph
