The trees rustled faintly at the edge of Le Pont Noir, a shallow valley split by a long-frozen stream and bordered on both sides by hills thick with pine and snowfall.
The fog hung like smoke, and the white silence was shattered only by the muffled grind of distant boots and the occasional clink of armor adjusting under fur-lined cloaks.
Winter is not a time to wage war, but Romanus at least was prepared for it, having lost no forces due to the environment itself the entire campaign so far.
Julius stood atop the central ridge, where his forward command had been established — not in a tent, but exposed on a makeshift wooden dais surrounded by raised stone and a half-circle of sharpened stakes.
His Iron Cavalry waited in silence behind him, their horses breathing mist, their weapons unsheathed.
Before them, stretching beyond the frozen ridgelines, was the corridor.
Their corridor.
