It was blackness, a kind of darkness so complete that it didn't just blind—it suffocated. The moonless sky gave nothing. No stars, no shapes, not even the sheen of steel or the glint of helmets. All the rebel soldiers had were sounds—and those sounds were hellish, provocative and nightmarish.
Metal screamed against metal.Men cried out—some in fury, most in agony.The thudding rhythm of boots stomping mud.The sickening crunch of bodies breaking to the awful machine of war.
But no sight.No form.No enemy they could point to and say: There—strike there.
Death was around them and yet invisible
And so, thousands stood paralyzed, trying to make sense of a nightmare unfolding in the black, with only bloodcurdling clues to guide them.
On a normal day, in full daylight with colors flying and captains shouting, the sheer weight of their numbers might've stirred courage. They might've rallied and charged following their lords' directives
