(Vladford POV)
Winter had claimed Heathfield long before the capital began speaking of weddings.
Snow covered the ruined hills of my homeland in thick white silence. Frost clung to the broken towers of watch posts we had reclaimed over the past year. The wind carried the sharp scent of pine and smoke across the rebel camp.
The men still trained.
War did not pause for winter.
Steel rang across the clearing as soldiers practiced blade drills beneath the falling snow. Others hauled supplies through the narrow paths carved between tents and wooden barricades. Fires burned constantly in iron braziers to keep frostbite from claiming fingers and toes.
It was not the duchy I once knew.
But it was ours again.
At least part of it.
"Your blade is drifting too far left," I said.
The young soldier in front of me froze mid-swing.
"Again."
He swallowed and reset his stance.
Snow clung to his shoulders and hair as he swung again. This time his strike landed cleaner against my blade.
