Frost clung to the soul of Ranevia.
The sun had barely broken the line of the northern mountains, yet the air still tasted of iron and smoke.
From the highest ruined watchtower, you could see the strange new order taking root in this forgotten wasteland — the crooked streets straightened into parade lines, skeletal buildings reinforced with timber stolen from the southern roads, the rotting silence of the last year shattered by the bark of drill commands.
Miller's voice carried far, cold and cutting, as he paced between rows of men who had once been gang cutthroats.
They now stood in mismatched armor, yet they no longer moved in the rigid, jerking rhythms of untrained soldiers trying to imitate discipline. Steel clashed as they practiced shield walls, the sound sharp in the brittle air.
Beyond them, smoke curled from the newly restored forges, black columns against the pale sky. The smell of coal and burning scrap mixed with the tang of frost.
