Twenty days before the war.
Morning in Iron Hearth arrived with a different sound. It was no longer the rhythmic cadence of drills, but the roar of heavy machinery warming up—the rumble of tanks shifting into position, the hum of Sky-Hunters being loaded onto mobile platforms, and the steady march of thousands of boots against the cold asphalt.
On the balcony of the Alpha Building, Rianor Sudrath stood with his hands resting on the cold iron railing. Below, a convoy of military vehicles moved slowly toward the southern gate—a steel serpent whose end was nowhere in sight. Wolf-Tusk and Titan MK-1 tanks marched in neat rows, their cannons angled toward the grey sky. Infantry marched along the roadsides, rucksacks on their backs and Sudrath Spears in their hands.
