The field had gone silent.
No wind stirred the banners. No voice carried across the ranks. The walls of Lapurum loomed ahead, darkend stone against the sunlit sky, their battlements lined with still, watching figures. Even the birds had vanished, as if the very air awaited.
Down the slope walked the herald, flanked by the Hierophant and his priests that led the spearhead in their white and crimson vestments. Their steps fell in unison, slow and deliberate, until they halted sixty paces from the walls—close enough that the herald no longer had to tilt his head back to address those above.
The banner was planted into the earth with a single, solid motion. Even in the absence of current it still pulsed on its own, gracefully phasing from one of its many hues to the next. Behind it, the priests formed a half-circle and bowed their heads.
The chant began low, a murmur at first, like the rustle of leaves before a storm. It swelled quickly, weaving syllables older than the walls themselves, rising and falling in rhythm, a call to powers both divine and imperial. The sound carried without echo, as if the earth itself drank the words in reverence.
Then the herald raised his head.
When he spoke, the battlefield heard him. Every soldier, every figure on the walls, every creature within earshot. The air itself seemed to part for his voice, bearing it outward in perfect clarity.
"People of Lapurum," he began, the words precise yet heavy with youth's strain, "by order of the Throne and the blessing of the Lifegiver, this city is released from the hands of traitors and returned to the light of law and faith. Lay down your arms. Open your gates. Stand with us, or stand aside."
The speech carried the stiffness of new memorization, but the weight of ceremony lent it power. Each word struck like a hammer, ringing out across the stones and walls until there was nothing left but silence once more.
For a long moment, the tension thickened until the air itself felt solid. Then a figure stepped onto the gate's parapet. Words were exchanged between the herald and the man above, but they were too far to reach our ears.
We understood soon enough.
A burning brand tumbled from the wall, landing at the herald's feet. The group leapt back, then dashed forward to smother the flames when they saw what burned: the city's own banner.
The traitor had set it alight.
Treachery was one thing—but I knew this blasphemy would break the composure of the clergy among our ranks.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, Praefectus," Felix said, his voice carrying that strained lightness soldiers use when tension runs too high, "but it seems they won't be opening the gates on their own."
"I believe," I answered, eyes on the smoldering banner, "we will indeed have to pry them open. Give the signal for the spearhead to move. But not until the herald is back," I added quickly, before Felix could spring forward with the order.
Lucan was already halfway back, the banner trailing like a captured sunbeam behind him, when it happened.
A sound cut through the stillness.
Not the roar of a horn, nor the clash of steel—just a single, soft thump, sharp enough to snap the moment in two.
Felix was the first to hear it.
"Oh… fuck," he breathed, voice barely carrying over the wind.
I turned sharply, ready to scold him for his language, when I saw the reason for his words.
The herald staggered mid-step, the bannerpole slipping from his grip. For a heartbeat, he seemed confused, as though the world itself had tilted beneath him. Then he crumpled, the shaft of an arrow jutting clean through his chest, its black fletching fluttering like a mockery of the banner he had carried.
"Shit," I hissed, the weight of it hitting me all at once. "Go—now!"
The priests were already rushing forward, white and crimson vestments flaring as they sprinted toward the fallen herald. Shock rippled through the ranks behind us, men shifting, voices rising in disbelief. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not here. Not like this.