The trumpets sounded before dawn.
They were not the thin brass calls of court ceremony, but the deep, throated roar of war-horns—iron crying out through mist. From the northern gate to the eastern battlements, every soldier of the garrison felt the vibration run through the stone beneath their boots.
Even before the first banner appeared, the rumor had already passed from tower to tower: the Leonidus fief approaches.
By the time the first carriage wheels were seen beyond the river road, the three castles of the garrison had gathered their court like a storm around its eye.
Earls and barons assembled beneath the banners of their houses. The Countess of Saxon stood pale against the torchlight. The air thickened with the smell of oil, steel, and fear.
Then came the procession.
