Lisban pulsed with life, but the weight in Lyan's chest never lifted.
Bonfires crackled in the central plaza, coaxing the wet stones to steam. Flame-light spilled over broken market stalls, gilding shattered roof beams like strands of molten gold. Lanterns bobbed on thin reeds, drifting back and forth as if testing new wings. Their glow flashed across laughing faces—Astellian soldiers, townsfolk, even a few freed Varzadian prisoners drawn by warmth and food. Everywhere, music: a violin sawed a merry reel, a drum answered with steady heartbeats, and somebody plucked a lute that had only five strings left but still refused to fall silent.
