The wind rose through Alpheo’s fingers, a chilling sensation spreading through them like icy tendrils. He raised his gaze, feeling the cool breeze ruffle his hair and tug at the folds of his clothing. The air was crisp and biting, carrying with it the feeling of death.

As he lowered his eyes, he noticed his fingers beginning to tremble involuntarily. With a firm resolve, he clenched his fists, willing the tremors to cease. The last thing a leader needed to do was to show fear, especially now, with the fate of the city being unknown.

Before him, beyond the stone walls that encircled the city, lay the enemy. The army of the Prince of Oizen stretched out in disciplined ranks. Alpheo's eyes traced the movements of their heralds, fluttering defiantly in the wind,the biggest and tallest of which carried the colors and symbols of House Oizen.

The flag of House Oizen, proudly displayed atop a towering standard, caught the sunlight and billowed majestically against the backdrop of the azure sky. Its design was simple yet commanding: a white shield adorned with vertically striped black bands. Alpheo spared it just a brief gaze before moving on.

Each soldier stood tall and resolute, their armor glinting in the sunlight as they marched in perfect formation. The rhythmic beat of their boots echoed across the plain, a steady drumming that resonated with unwavering determination.

The soldiers themselves comprised a motley assembly, drawn from the diverse regions and backgrounds of their princedom. Clad in a mishmash of armor and wielding an assortment of weapons, they presented a ragtag image of a hastily assembled force. Most were armed with little more than a simple lance and shield, their defenses augmented by makeshift breastplates fashioned from strips of wood. Chainmail was a luxury afforded to only a fraction of their number, leaving the majority vulnerable to the rigors of battle.

Alpheo observed with a critical eye, noting the signs of hurried mobilization evident in their ranks. It was clear that this force had been hastily raised, likely with the intention of launching a swift assault to seize Aracina before laying siege to its walls. The infantry made up the bulk of their numbers, a sea of determined faces marching in disciplined formation. Among them, Alpheo spotted a contingent of around four hundred archers.

Yet the heavy cavalry commanded Alpheo's attention, the true elite of the prince's army. Clad from head to toe in gleaming steel, these formidable warriors cut imposing figures atop their armored steeds. Each knight was encased in a suit of armor so thick and unyielding that it seemed to transform them into living fortresses. Their faces obscured behind visored helmets, they exuded an aura of indomitable strength and unwavering resolve.

Alpheo's gaze lingered on the heavily armored destriers, their powerful frames harnessed in protective barding. Even the horses were not spared the weight of battle, their bodies encased in armor to shield them from harm. For what good would it be to don armor from head to toe if their mounts were felled by a stray arrow, sending both rider and steed crashing to the ground in a tangle of steel and flesh?

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Luckily for Alpheo and his men they were on the defense, if the gods were on their side , the enemy army would be blasted by epidemics and sickness.He was an historian after all in his previous life and he knew that in a siege most of the casualty came from sickness.It was for this reason that he made sure that each of his man washed their hands in water before eating , and that each day they would wash thier face and hands.Unfortunately he did not have a soap, still at least bathing in water was something.

There was no worry about wasting water, since the city was built around a river that flew in the middle of it , and thankfully the enemy would have no time to block the river with a dam to make them surrender for a lack of water, always if they had the engineer's ability for such an endovouer .

Alpheo noticed the anxious expression etched on Clio's face as they surveyed the approaching enemy army from atop the city walls. "Well, there seems to be quite a lot of them," Clio remarked, his voice tinged with worry.

Alpheo's response was measured, his tone steady despite the weight of the situation. "More bodies to fertilize the ground then," he commented, his gaze unwavering as it swept over the advancing ranks below. "We have the walls separating them from us. If the enemy prince is foolish enough to send his men forward without proper preparations, then he will find himself short of an army."

Clio, a fisherman thrust into the role of a defender, swallowed hard at the sight of the enemy host. Alpheo understood the man's trepidation and knew he needed to project an image of control and confidence. Gesturing ahead, he directed Clio's attention to the trenches that had consumed days of labor. "See those ditches I made you waste days digging?" he asked, his voice firm. "Those are what will separate us from leisurely waiting for them to come and facing them head-on as they throw lives at our walls. If they even want to entertain the idea of assaulting the walls, they'll first have to clear a path or use ladders.’’ He chuckled ‘‘And if they dare use the latter- Gods help the fools , for they'll find themselves dropping dead before they even reach us."

Clio remained silent, though Alpheo noted a subtle shift in his demeanor. The transformation was slight, but significant. Alpheo recognized the need to bolster the man's courage, to ensure that he would not falter when the time came, he was short of men already, he did not need cravens in his ranks . With a determined gleam in his eye, Alpheo resolved to provide Clio with a baptism of fire and blead , placing him on the front lines of the defense where he would learn to stand firm when sorrounded by blood and death.

Alpheo surveyed the enemy army sprawled out before the city, his gaze sharp and calculating. "From what I can see, the enemy has no siege engines, no catapults, and no ballistae," he remarked to his men. "That means we won't be hearing stones smashing against our walls day and night. Although it would have been nice if we could have seized one," he added in a lower tone, a hint of regret tainting his words.

Turning his attention back to his men, Alpheo issued his orders with authority. "Each of you has been assigned a specific task. Get into position and ensure that our archers never run out of arrows, our slingers always have stones, and our men never lack projectiles to hurl at the enemy's head. If we're lucky, sickness may spread among their ranks and cripple them."

Egil, ever the skeptic, voiced his concerns. "Couldn't the same thing happen to us?"

Alpheo considered the question carefully before responding. "Unlikely, if you all follow the instructions I've given regarding hygiene. You've seen the results firsthand—none of us have fallen ill, thanks to regular washing and proper care during our long march out of slavery . But I understand the risk posed by those inside the city who may not adhere to our instructions."

With a thoughtful nod, Alpheo formulated a solution. "When distributing the daily rations, ensure that everyone washes their hands before eating. It's a small measure, but it could make a difference. Now, everyone to their posts. The enemy will attempt to fill the moats, so I want our slingers raining down stones on them. Use the stones but conserve the arrows; we'll need them." With that, he turned away, his mind already racing with plans to defend the city to the best of their abilities.