The march began before dawn.
There was no announcement, no ceremonial departure, no echoing horns to mark the movement of a conquering force.
Only the quiet efficiency of discipline—rows of soldiers assembling beneath a sky that had not yet decided whether to surrender to light.
Mist clung low to the ground, brushing against armored boots as they moved into formation.
The air was cool, sharp enough to bite at exposed skin, but no one complained.
They never did.
Not under him.
At the front, mounted and unmoving, Alexander watched.
He had not slept.
Not because he could not.
But because something—subtle, persistent—had kept his thoughts from settling.
It had begun the night before.
A faint disturbance.
Barely noticeable.
Easy to dismiss.
He had dismissed it.
Now, standing at the head of an army moving toward a destination he had chosen without full reason, he no longer found it so easy.
"Your Majesty."
