As they advanced closer toward the formation of soldiers, the sight that greeted them was not one of glory, but exhaustion. The men of the army formed for the dungeon looked worn and beaten. Armor dented and torn, torn banners hanging limply beside them. Some soldiers sat on rocks or leaned against their spears, their faces pale and smeared with grime and dried blood.
Many of their breastplates were cracked, the once-proud sigils of the different noble houses now faded and blackened by soot. Bandages wrapped around arms, shoulders, and heads, stained a deep red where wounds refused to close. Eros' sharp gaze swept across them—he could tell these men had endured more than a few brutal encounters in the dungeon.
Amanda whispered softly to Ngozi, "There are fewer of them than there should be…"
Ngozi nodded grimly. "Yes. Far fewer. It seems The dungeon has already claimed many lives."
