They came from the east, a thousand riders spread across the plain like wolves circling wounded prey.
Hector saw them from the northern wall as the first alarm bells rang. The city stirred behind him—soldiers running to their posts, militia captains shouting orders, women dragging children inside and barring doors. The sound was familiar now, the rhythm of a city that had learned to live with war. Hector had heard it too many times in the past two years, but the edge never dulled.
Miros was already on the parapet when he arrived, his left hand resting on his sword, his useless right arm bound against his chest. His eyes moved over the approaching riders with the calm assessment of a man who had spent his life reading battlefields.
"A thousand. Mounted mostly. Some chariots. No siege equipment." He paused. "Shasu. Desert raiders. They fight for coin."
