The next dawn broke under a sky the color of ash. Wind swept cold from the mountain peaks, dragging gray clouds low across the plains. The joint camp of the Snowe's and the Blue Countess's host stirred like a great beast waking ... banners snapping, horns calling, and hundreds of feet crunching frost-hardened earth.
The time for departure had come.
For two days, the camp had held its uneasy truce. The Blue Countess's troops, immaculate and composed, kept to their upper terraces; the Snowe's, grim and scarred, lingered near the slope below. They exchanged supplies, shared firewood, even drank together once ... but it was a brittle peace, built on necessity rather than trust. And now, even that necessity was ending.
