Lan's eyes were still on the horizon, where the flames marked the edges of his conquest.
"Winter," he said softly, "will be the least of their worries."
The fires crackled. Somewhere in the city, a bell tolled — hollow, mournful.
--------
The stench of scorched wheat and charred flesh drifted on the wind, seeping into Westerloch's empty streets. Even here, in the province's heart, the silence felt unnatural — as though the city was waiting.
The Duke's blood still stained the cobbles in front of the keep, a dark, stubborn smear that the hurried efforts of the men hadn't erased.
Miller's boots thudded against the flagstones as he strode into the audience hall, his frame shadowing the man he dragged in tow.
The man's knees buckled as Miller shoved him forward, forcing him into a kneel before Lan. His clothes were noble yet dirt-streaked, but the faded crest on his shoulder was unmistakable.
"Loyal," Miller said. It wasn't a guess.
