The night gave its final breath as the sky bruised with the faintest hue of silver. Dawn approached slowly, like a diplomat uncertain of her welcome. The valley, cradled between the cliffs of Reuven and the fields claimed by the Black Crown, stood still. Even the wind withheld its voice.
Thalen stood in his armor, gauntlets loose at his sides. His fingers traced the leather binding of the Blade That Breaks. It was sheathed now, but its weight sang beneath his ribs a reminder that this day would shift the course of more than a war.
A parley. The word had been spoken in whispers the previous night, carried like fragile parchment from messenger to war camp, from soldier to captain. No blood would be spilled until the sun had climbed beyond its throne. That was the accord one final chance for words to triumph where steel had ruled.
Varos joined him at the edge of the ridge. "They're readying their lines. I see over four hundred marked banners."
