She expected some resistance—humans always clung stubbornly to their cities. But as they draw closer, there's no movement, no sign of soldiers reinforcing the gates. Then she sees it.
A handful of guards stand atop the walls, their postures slumped. Above them, a white flag flutters weakly in the cold wind.
Sorin halts her mount, her crimson eyes flashing with suspicion. She raises a hand, signaling her forces to stop.
Nyssara beside her grunts. "They surrendered already?"
"Seems that way," Sorin mutters, scanning the surroundings. She doesn't like it. Victory without a fight rarely feels like a victory at all.
From the gates, a frail-looking man steps forward, dressed in hastily donned armor that barely fits. His voice wavers as he calls out, "We surrender! Cras is yours!"
Sorin studies him for a moment before nudging her beast forward. Her soldiers remain tense behind her, ready for any last-minute tricks.
"Open the gates," she orders.
