The desert sun hung low like a blood-red coin over the shifting sands of the Holy Lands, casting long shadows across the dunes. Wind howled through scorched valleys, carrying the distant echo of drums and the clatter of armored horsemen. The frontier had never been quiet—yet today, the desert seemed to hold its breath.

At the edge of an oasis, a half-built fortress rose from sun-baked stone and timber. Wooden scaffolding clung to unfinished towers, and laborers hauled blocks in haste as the sound of hammers rang through camp. Banners flapped lazily atop the keep, their colors still new—marking the domain of a lord yet untested.

Inside the keep’s courtyard, soldiers hurried between the barracks and armory. Archers tested their bowstrings; spearmen sharpened their tips; a small troop of horsemen stood ready but restless. Tension settled over the garrison like sand.

Rumors had spread through the camp: A rival lord marched across the dunes, no mere raider, but a seasoned commander with engines of war.

The marketplace bustled as merchants argued prices—bread, iron, and wood were scarce; stone caravans had not yet arrived. Peasants whispered nervously of approaching armies, while the castle engineer stood atop a tower, judging distances and muttering about trebuchet counter-positions.

Inside the command tent, maps blanketed a low table. Tiny carved pieces marked nearby forts, some friendly, some hostile, many recently ruined.

A scout staggered into camp, clothing torn, eyes wide. “My lord—!” he gasped. “The enemy flies the colors of the Rat, duqrat. His forces draw near with haste! Bowmen—hundreds—maybe more!”

The courtyard erupted with shouts.

A messenger rushed to the lord’s side. “The granary is half full—our rations will not last a long siege. The armory is stocked but light; we have pitch for fire, but little stone for towers.”

The desert wind picked up, hot and merciless. In the distance, standards rose along the horizon—small at first, then growing into a crawling wave of armored men. Siege towers creaked forward; oxen pulled wooden war engines. The Rat’s mocking laughter carried faintly on the breeze.

From the battlements, the watchman called: “Enemy sighted! Bows ready! Shields up!”

Archers lined the walls, longbows raised. Workers scurried to finish the outer tower, knowing every stone added could be the difference between victory and ruin.

The lord stepped up to the highest rampart, surveying the battlefield as sand whipped around their boots. To the east, palm groves and rocky outcroppings might offer ambush ground; to the west, a narrow canyon could serve as a choke point.

Victory would require strategy A balance of iron and bread. Fire and faith.

The Rat’s army halted just beyond bowshot. Drums thundered. Banners swayed.

A thin, cruel voice echoed from the front lines: “Little lord… come out and play.”

The desert was quiet once more Silence, heavy and expectant.

The first battle of the frontier was about to begin.