Alpheo and Jarza walked through the royal camp beneath the rising morning sun, its warm light gilding the canvas tents and casting long shadows across the soft churned dirt. The scent of ash still lingered faintly in the air, but it was overpowered now by the aromas of roasting meat, spiced wine, and the sweat of contented men basking in victory.
The camp was alive with a rare energy—a heavy, radiant sort of joy that came not from celebration alone, but from relief, from survival, and from the knowledge that the war was, for all intents and purposes, over.
Men moved with a spring in their step, voices light with laughter, and smiles played easily across faces that only days before had been hardened by fatigue. Morale soared as high as the birds circling lazily overhead, coasting with the same effortless grace that the soldiers now moved with through the camp.
