The dust of the plain hung thick as the main lines clashed ahead, infantry locked shield to shield while archers traded volleys beneath a pale Anatolian sun. Behind them, the kataphract reserve stood in disciplined silence around the strategos, bronze and steel barely moving, horses stamping and snorting, held back for the decisive moment and to protect the general. The main cavalry flanks had already routed the enemy horse. Dionysia sat her barded mount like a statue carved from gold, eyes fixed on the enemy center beginning to waver as banners dipped and men fell.

She leaned slightly toward the commander, the leather of her reins creaking softly.

“We are wasting the strength God gave us,” she said evenly. “Their line bends. Give the word now, before the battle is over. Let us ride them down.”