Jarza marched forward.
Ahead of him, four hundred men moved as one, boots pressed tight to the earth in silence—no clink of loose armor, no stray coughs, no whispered prayers. Only the soft, almost ghostly sound of leather and breath and the brittle tension of men walking toward blood. In the black of a moonless night, they became shadows of themselves.
He rode behind them, as was his way—not leading the spearpoint, but haunting it. Watching. Feeling the rhythm of the line, the shudder of nerves hiding under hardened faces. His horse's hooves had been wrapped in cloth, muffling each step to little more than a breath against the dirt. Even the animal seemed to understand that this was no time for noise. No time for mistakes.
But Jarza's mind was not on the path ahead.
It was behind him.
In the camp.
At the bait.
