Two days later.
The scent of freshly baked bread danced in the morning air, golden crusts glistening under the rising sun.
The streets of Simharia's capital bustled, but it was not the usual chaos of survival. Today, there was life again—children playing, vendors shouting their wares, and voices, bright and free, filled with something rare.
Hope.
It hadn't been long since the disaster, but the people were happy.
After all, many people who should've died were now alive.
This surprise made the families who were prepared to mourn happy. Now, with the majority of the people glad, the minority was getting over their loss as well.
"Did you hear?" An old man said, tossing a loaf with practiced ease into a waiting basket. His skin was darkened by years of sun and heat; his beard was more flour than hair. "The queen—our Zahara—was the one who saved us. Don't let the nobles tell you otherwise."
