The field fell into a silence so profound it felt like a physical presence. No wind stirred the banners. No voice carried across the ranks. The walls of Lapurum loomed, darkened stone against the sunlit sky, their battlements lined with still, watching figures. Even the birds had vanished, as if the very air awaited what was to come.
Down the slope walked the herald, flanked by the Hierophant and his priests in their white and crimson vestments. Their steps fell in unison, slow and deliberate, until they halted sixty paces from the walls. The banner was planted into the earth with a single, solid motion. Even without a current, it pulsed on its own, gracefully phasing from one of its many hues to the next. Behind it, the priests formed a half-circle and bowed their heads.
The chant began low, a murmur at first, like the rustle of leaves before a storm. It swelled quickly, a call to powers both divine and imperial. The sound carried without echo, as if the earth itself drank the words in reverence.
Then the Herald raised his head.
When he spoke, the battlefield heard him. Every soldier, every figure on the walls, every creature within earshot. The air itself seemed to part for his voice, bearing it outward in perfect, unnatural clarity.
"People of Lapurum," he began, the words precise yet heavy with a young man's strain, "by order of the Throne and the blessing of the Lifegiver, this city is released from the hands of traitors and returned to the light of law and faith. Lay down your arms. Open your gates. Stand with us, or stand aside."
The speech carried the stiffness of new memorization, but the weight of ceremony lent it power. Each word struck the stones and walls and hung there, until nothing was left but a silence that was somehow louder than the speech itself.
For a long moment, the tension thickened until the air felt solid. Then a figure stepped onto the gate's parapet. Words were exchanged, too far for us to hear, their meaning lost in the distance.
We understood soon enough.
A burning brand tumbled from the wall, landing at the herald's feet. The group leapt back, then dashed forward to smother the flames when they saw what burned: the city's own banner.
The traitor had set it alight.
Treachery was one thing—but this was a blasphemy that would shatter the composure of the clergy.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, Praefectus," Felix said, his voice carrying that strained lightness soldiers use when tension runs too high, "but it seems they won't be opening the gates on their own."
"I believe," I answered, eyes fixed on the smoldering cloth, "we will indeed have to pry them open. Give the signal for the spearhead to move." I caught his arm before he could turn. "But not until the herald is back."
Lucan was already halfway to us, the banner trailing like a captured sunbeam behind him, when it happened.
A sound cut through the stillness.
Not the roar of a horn, nor the clash of steel—just a single, soft thump, sharp enough to snap the moment in two.
Felix was the first to hear it. "Oh… fuck," he breathed, the word barely a whisper.
I turned, a reprimand on my lips, and saw the reason for his curse.
The herald staggered mid-step, the bannerpole slipping from his grip. For a heartbeat, he seemed confused, as though the world itself had tilted beneath him. He looked down at the arrow shaft jutting from his chest with an expression of pure, uncomprehending surprise. Then his legs gave way, and he crumpled, the black fletching of the arrow fluttering like a mockery of the banner he had carried.
The sight struck me with the force of a warhammer. "Go—now!" I barked, my voice raw.
The priests were already rushing forward, white and crimson vestments flaring as they sprinted toward their fallen comrade. A wave of shock rippled through our ranks behind us, a low tide of shifting metal and disbelieving murmurs. This wasn't just an act of war. It was a desecration.
And the gods, it seemed, had chosen to look away.