While Ethan was giving Faelith the best day of her life, far away in Fallenwinter, an army was beginning to gather.
All around the city, the ground had been ravaged.
Centuries-old trees had been felled for kilometers on end, their still-fresh stumps bleeding sap into the summer air, filling it with the sharp scent of resin and cut wood.
In place of the forest, a vast encampment stretched as far as the eye could see—a sea of white tents and banners fluttering in the wind.
More than thirty thousand men were already gathered there, with another ten thousand still on their way.
Organizing a force of that size was, obviously, a logistical nightmare.
Still, under the coordination of more than a hundred third-stage specialists and the supreme command of a fourth-stage warrior, the army was taking shape.
While the men trained beneath the blazing sun and sharpened their blades, the leaders of that vast force met elsewhere.
