At first light, the camp of Major Gresham's survivors began to stir. The mists crept low across the grasslands, veiling torn banners and makeshift tents in pale gloom. The smell of blood and boiled roots hung thick over the slope ... the smell of survival.
Men coughed in their bedrolls. Medics moved between the cots, washing bandages dark with rot and grime. Griffons wheezed where they lay tethered, their wings bound tight with rope and canvas. It was the quiet of exhaustion, of soldiers too tired to even curse the cold.
Then the colors of House Winters broke through the mist.
Carriages drawn by white horses descended from the ridge, bearing the azure-and-silver banner of the Blue Countess. Behind them came a column of healers and quartermasters, their robes clean, their posture unbent by hardship. They moved like a procession ... careful, deliberate ... bringing with them the scent of lavender oil and parchment.
