Cold rain seeped into cracks in the rock, gathering into thin streams beneath the jagged cliffs before finally dripping onto the mouth of a narrow cave almost completely hidden by vines.
Inside, the air was damp and heavy, mingling with the smells of moss, rotting leaves, and the faint mildew rising from leather armor that had gone unwashed for far too long.
A colonel of the Minicia Kingdom and King Charles's most faithful hound... Silas Mordred lay curled motionless deep in the shadows, like a stubborn rock fused with the mountain itself.
Even in the dim light, his deep-set eyes gleamed with a hawk's sharpness. Through the sparse gaps in the vines, he stared fixedly at the column of "allied" troops winding through the valley below as they withdrew.
An ornate iris banner belonging to some great noble drooped listlessly in the rain. The soldiers trudged along with crooked helmets, their complaints faintly audible even through the curtain of rain.
"Another fool has given up."
Colonel Mordred's voice was low and hoarse, like sandpaper scraping stone, with undisguised contempt.
Behind him, the hundred-odd surviving soldiers of the Royal Guard were scattered silently throughout the cave like ghosts. They were in much better shape than the withdrawing soldiers outside. Though just as tired and filthy, their eyes held no slackness, only a numb vigilance honed by a long hunt.
The adjutant from the Royal Hundred-Man Company leaned closer, keeping his voice extremely low.
"Colonel, those are the last of our allies.
"Since word arrived that the granary in White Rock City was destroyed, Bagnia's forces have been massing and advancing north and northeast in great numbers. The southern front is in crisis.
"All the nobles' private troops helping search the mountains, along with most of the local forces, have been urgently