Mikael sat tall in the saddle, his steel-plated armor glinting underneath the dull morning sun. Behind him, his bright red cloak fluttered like a herald's banner.
Around and behind him, five hundred elite soldiers rode, clad in blackened armor adorned with the silver lion of the royal house.
The silent pounding of hooves across the plains mirrored the heartbeat in Mikael's chest. This was not some kind of military parade. It would have been a much happier event if it had been that. No. This was a funeral march. For the death of the old world.
As they crested the final ridge overlooking the shattered remains of Rainhold, Mikael raised a gauntleted hand. His horse slowed to a canter, then stopped. The men behind him did the same, silence filling the air around him.
Below them, Rainhold was a ruin. A cratered skeleton of its former self. Smoke still rose from some places, but the air was generally clearer than it had been when the city had faced destruction.
