The hooves of Elheat's warhorse echoed softly across the stone ramp of the Thalassar signal tower, clinking in steady rhythm as he dismounted and ascended the final steps on foot.
Above him, the stars blinked cold and sharp over the western sea.
Below him, the port city of Thalassar glowed like a hearth in the night — Romanus banners hung from every tower, signal lights blinked in prearranged code, and beyond the harbor.
He had done it.
Three cities taken.
The coast was theirs.
And still, Elheat felt no triumph.
Only the weight of momentum.
He stood at the pinnacle of the tower and looked northward across the vast bay that separated Achae from the green and gold edges of western Francia.
The water was calm.
But not peaceful.
It was waiting.
Waiting for the next command.
The next strike.
The next scream.
Behind him, the port bustled like a city reborn.
