Arnold sat tall on his warhorse, its black coat gleaming under the morning sun, much like the intricate decoration of his armor. Gold accents caught the light with every movement, making him a shining figure as he moved deliberately through the ranks.
The 800 footmen stood in disciplined rows, their weapons at their sides, eyes locked on their prince. Each man could hear him clearly as his horse paced slowly along the line. Arnold's words, when he spoke, would carry to all corners, but for now, he said nothing.
He looked closely at the faces in the lines. Some of these men came from villages ravaged by the rebels—homes burned, families slaughtered, as they were recruited on the way there. Their eyes burned with a fury that needed no words to express. They craved vengeance, and it was this shared hunger for retribution that bound them together.