Dressed in his gilded armour of gleaming gold, silver and ebony, the Emperor strode from the depths of the tent, dressed in the lavish plate armour that had been passed down for generations. Every inch of metal was etched in gold, the silver sheen of the steel competing with the gold for dominance, and it was almost as though the sun grew slightly brighter in the sky. Flanked by a pair of seasoned Legates, not one of the thousands of soldiers who witnessed the appearance of the Emperor noticed that the Praetorian guard were nowhere to be seen. Nor did they see the unease shared by those closest to the Emperor.

  The battle formations had been drawn, arrayed in rows, ten or fifteen legionaries deep across the rolling hills and farmlands to the north of Lake Rumare. Between the deep waters surrounding City Isle and the two kilometre wide mass of heavy Imperial infantry awaited their enemy, similarly arranged for battle.

  An ancient, golden funeral mask of the first Mede Emperor, framed by its sturdy golden helm, looked over a sea of expectant faces as the Emperor walked amongst his soldiers once more. Rumours of the attempted assassination during the night had swept the army like wildfire, and some legionaries had their courage hanging by threads, dreading what similar fate would await them on the battlefield. The sight of their Emperor standing, dressed in the full panoply of war sent a ripple of cheers through the massed ranks.

  "General Tullius, are the men ready?" The Emperor called, picking out the red-cloaked figure standing in a group of the highest ranked officers present.

  "Yes sire.” Grey hairs had begun to appear, but a lifetime of wearing a helmet had begun receding the general’s hairline at an earlier age. The salute though was perfect and precise, even as Tullius ran his fingers comfortingly along the hilt of his well-used gladius. “The First through to Twelfth Legions are arrayed and ready."

  "Good." Slowly, precisely, the gleaming, golden katana attached to the Emperor’s side was drawn, a gloved thumb testing its edge for keenness, while those nearest shared looks of concern among themselves. Such a weapon, and its origins would be a mystery to most, but there were a few who knew that such a weapon would never need anything as mundane as sharpening. “What word have we received from the other armies?”

  "General Jonna has engaged Aldmeri hosts to the East with the Nordic and Vvardenfell Legions. The assault is going well and they are driving the elven Armonía’s before them."

  "And General Decianus?"

  A finger pointed to the west, where several dozen kilometres distant an enormous black mass slithered from the edge of the Great Forest. From their position in the hills and rolling plains in southern Aleswell Barony, and despite the distance, a rolling cheer lifted up from the massed ranks of the Cyrodiilic legions. The full might of the Mede Empire was advancing from the west, north and east, onto the Imperial City and the elven armies defending it. Never had such numbers been arrayed for battle. Thirty eight Legions from across the Empire marched in three enormous formations that were each several kilometers wide, crushing all in their path whether it was their Dominion foes, or the likes of farms and forests. From the I Legio, Cyrodiilica to the XXXVIII Legio, Cineres Yokudae from Hammerfell, the shores and plains surrounding the Imperial City and Lake Rumare shuddered at their approach.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Their foes, however awaited them, in equal numbers prepared along the shores and within the enormous, circular city built in the centre of the lake. They were rows upon rows of black and golden armoured warriors drawn from across the Dominion, from the Khajiit phoederati in their lamellar plate, to the gleaming moonstone armoured core of Altmer Metananeoi pikemen. The heartlands of Cyrodiil had never felt the presence of such armies before, even during the bloodiest days of the Three Banners War in the Second Era, or the Oblivion Crisis at the end of the Third. Expectation weighed upon all those present, from the hardened veterans who had survived four years of bloody conflict, to the fresh recruits finding themselves taking part in their first battle. None could deny the importance of such a day.

  "Iactus ultimus aleae.” Those nearest to the Emperor heard him softly speak to himself as he spoke ‘one last throw of the dice’ in Ancient Cyrodiilic. More than one of the assembled legates, tribunes, military advisors and support staff looked among themselves at the strangeness of the tone. Only a small handful of the most trusted among their number knew the truth, but their fears and concerns were drowned out as the gilded figure stepped forward, raising the burning, golden daedric katana to the sky to the cheers of the Cyrodiilic legions.

  Dressed in the Emperor’s gilded plate armour, and his features hidden behind a mask fashioned in the likeness of the first Mede Emperor, Kaius felt the strangely comforting weight of the daedric sword Goldbrand, as he kept it aloft for the army to see. The cheers and the sudden wave of confidence was felt, more than heard as the Legions saw their Emperor standing with them. He ignored them, staring off at the sight of White-Gold Tower rising into the sky several kilometres distant. Its height and majesty had always inspired awe within him. Today however, it was a symbol, an objective to be taken, rendered hazy and indistinct in the dust of hundreds of thousands of soldiers preparing for battle.

  Inhaling deeply, he could feel his fangs pressing into his lips, hidden behind the funeral mask of an old friend, and ancestor to the man whose identity he was impersonating. But it didn’t matter. The Legions needed to know their Emperor was with them, and with an increasingly savage, but hidden grin he thrust the sword higher into the sky, bellowing a pair of words for all to hear.

  "DOVAH INVICTA!"

  Sixty thousand soldiers and hundreds of thousands of camp followers, labourers, engineers, healers and army supporters returned the Legion’s battle cry, tearing leaves from trees with its fury. It was a cry of war, a cry that rolled over the lands of Cyrodiil where it was heard, and then taken up by the other two armies marching on the City. Two hundred thousand men and women of the thirty eight Imperial Legions began marching to war, their disciplined tread shaking the ground, and resounding with the approach of destiny.