The sun had dipped just enough for the light to be golden, painting every polished edge and taut canvas of the camp in honey and fire. Around them, the life of an army unfurled in quiet, victorious rhythm: the clatter of dice, the low hum of a hundred songs half-sung.
Prince Alpheo and Lord Xanthios walked at a measured pace along the perimeter of the camp. It wasn't ceremony. It wasn't patrol. It was something older than either—two men sharing the aftertaste of vengeance, like old wine on the tongue.
Lord Xanthios' eyes lingered on the soldiers—his soldiers, now resting, laughing, polishing blades. It had taken him years to crawl back from disgrace of faling to avenge his brother . And here they were now, his men returned to the field under the prince who had given him his sword again.
