As the sun dipped lower into the horizon, casting long slashes of gold and rust over the rolling plains, the retinue under Chief Varros' command began to slow their pace.
Their horses, though sturdy, had been marching since dawn with barely a moment's respite.
Dust clung to their boots and cloaks, and the rattling wheels of the carriages groaned like weary men.
Then came the signal.
Chief Varros raised a gloved hand. "Halt."
The command echoed down the column. Knights reined in their steeds with practiced grace, banners fluttered to a stillness, and the carriages creaked to a gentle stop.
Varros, clad in a flowing black officer's coat embroidered with the insignia of Black Vale, turned his steed toward the rear of the convoy.
He tapped his horse's flank, riding at a steady trot toward the last few carriages—smaller, well-furnished, and guarded by knights bearing the markings of different minor noble houses.
