Merza was no one special.
A farmer by birth , he had spent most of his life with his hands sunk in dirt helping his family , eyes squinting at the sky to guess rain, and his back bent over crops that fed more mouths than his own. His world was small — bounded by wheat fields, livestock, and the daily rituals of rural life. But like wildfire through dry grass, news sometimes came even to his forgotten corner of the realm.
And this time, it came with the promise of glory.
Whispers had begun among neighbors returning from the capital — whispers that soon, the White Army would reopen its gates to new recruits. The the elite spearhead of the Legion of Yarzat, as it was also nicknamed, yet better known as the Black Stripes .
It didn't take much more for Merza to make up his mind. Nor for his friends. Thirty of them — plowhands, shepherds, sons of bakers — all stirred by the same restless hunger, gathered their few belongings and marched with calloused feet toward the capital.
