The wind off the sea still smelled of char and brine. Ironwater Harbor lay behind them—broken masts jutting from the water like snapped bones, the air thick with the faint crackle of cooling embers. Lan didn't look back.
Miller's detachment remained in the ruins, a hard-eyed garrison of Ranevian loyalists who would hold the coast until they were called again.
The rest of the force—nearly a hundred strong—marched north with the loot and captives in tow.
Heavy carts groaned under stolen barrels of salted fish, bales of sailcloth, crates of coin, and bundles of shipwright tools. Shackled shipbuilders stumbled barefoot in the mud, their faces pale, still smelling of smoke.
The road wound through marshlands that sucked at boots and slowed wagons. The sky was a dull pewter, heavy with the promise of rain.
