From the heights of the Boquerón, the silence of the mist was shattered by a low, rhythmic thrumming. It was not merely the sound of footsteps, but the heavy, synchronized tread of hundreds of boots striking wet earth—a slow, deliberate heartbeat echoing against the canyon walls.
Through the humid air rose the clatter of steel: sabers brushing against breastplates, muskets knocking hollowly against leather straps. Yet there was no singing, no triumphant shouting. Between the ranks lingered a suffocating silence. Only the strained breathing of horses and the occasional wet slide of a boot in the mud broke it. It was the sound of a machine made of iron and sin, marching not toward glory, but toward a destiny already feared.
Krugger studied the column through the fog and frowned."I suppose those are the fanatics I've heard so much about."
