The massive black iron gate slowly rose, and loose snow slid from its threshold into the darkness.
A moment later, a metallic roar rang out, rattling every chest.
The iron-shod hooves of the 17th Legion emerged from the shadows.
There were no horns, no drums, no ceremony, only the deafening thunder of hooves.
Thousands of heavily armored knights poured through the gate, as though darkness itself had been cast into solid form.
They were encased in black steel plate, its edges riveted with cold iron, their pauldrons engraved with spirals symbolizing storms.
Each knight looked like a weapon forged from steel and fury. Their warhorses wore heavy half-barding, white mist rising from their nostrils like the breath of savage wolves.
The ground trembled beneath them. Snow was torn apart and crushed, spraying shards of ice that their heavy hooves ground to powder.
On the boundless snowy plain, they were not a column but an entire moving wall of black iron.
Oppressive, cold, merciless.
When thousands of spears rose in unison, the clang of their ends striking armor exploded like thunder, shaking snow from the cedars on the distant mountainsides.
Ackerman Greer rode at the very front.
His black-scaled warhorse was as massive as a magical beast, its mane whipped high by the bitter wind, its body clad in heavy armor. His cloak snapped out in the blizzard like a battle standard about to catch fire.
Behind him, a winding dragon of black armor stretched for miles, moving at his command. Hooves thundered, armor scraped, and spears swayed, creating a soul-shaking pressure amid the wind and snow.
He felt his heartbeat fall into rhythm with that torrent of iron, pounding ever harder, urging him forward, ever forward.
This was power. This was what truly gave him confidence.
As they entered the