Three days had passed since Lan and his army had returned to the north.
The snows had not fully claimed the fields, but the air was already sharp, carrying the bite of winter. The Ranevian banners fluttered limply in the wind over scorched timber and half-toppled walls.
The battle for survival a year ago had been as fierce as any war; yet now the streets bustled, hammer against anvil, saw against wood, the voices of soldiers and smiths alike binding the fractured province back into something that resembled life.
Their wagons had arrived groaning under the weight of their spoils — sacks of grain stacked like bricks of gold, enough to feed every soldier and worker for the next year if rationed well.
They had brought more than food, though.
Among their haul were prisoners — hundreds of them — captured soldiers and able-bodied men from the enemy's ranks. By Lan's order, they would not be kept in chains for long.
