The sun had begun to settle behind the scorched silhouette of Varzadia's broken gates, staining the camp an autumn orange that made every torn banner look briefly like dying leaves. Lyan paused on a rise of rubble that used to be the guard-house parapet, hands braced on his knees, and let the whole vista soak into his bones. Broken walls, tents pitched in wild angles, cook-fires smoking where marble fountains had once sprayed scented water. The hush was uncanny. He could still feel where cannon-runed ballista bolts had screamed over this exact spot two nights ago, feel the phantom tremor of cavalry charging past, but the only noise now was the dry flap of canvas and the distant jangle of harness buckles.
His body didn't know what to do with quiet. Muscles twitched, expecting the next alarm. Even the spirits were subdued—Griselda's usual crackle lay soft as banked coals, Cynthia's calm a deep, watchful stillness.
