The first supply caravan crested the final ridge at midmorning, its canvas-covered wagons emerging from the haze of dust and distance like a mirage given substance. The scouts who spotted it from the outer watchtower didn't believe it at first. After twenty-six days of isolation, of dwindling rations and silent skies empty of returning ravens, the sight of twelve wagons bearing the crown's seal seemed too much like a fever dream to trust.
But the wagons were real. The crown seal was genuine. And the fifty soldiers riding escort wore armor that was clean and bright, unstained by combat, their faces bearing the ruddy health of men who had eaten three meals a day for every one of those twenty-six days.
The contrast with the garrison they had come to relieve was stark enough to be painful.
