At the western edge of the Whisperwood, where the primeval forest met the undulating grasslands of the border marches, a massive military encampment had sprung up overnight. Over twelve hundred soldiers of the Golden Order and mercenary companies from the Spires were bivouacked along the riverbanks, their white canvas pavilions surrounded by pointed timber palisades and iron caltrops. In the center of the camp, sixty colossal alchemical catapults stood in…
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