The next morning broke beneath a gray sky, the sun veiled in a haze of dust and smoke.
The northern plains smelled faintly of ash and hunger.
Duke Lian rode through the lower camp with General Roung at his side.
Everywhere they passed, the same scene unfolded — hollow faces, tattered uniforms, soldiers sitting by cold fires gnawing at dried roots.
Some had bandages so old they'd begun to fray.
Others sat too still, eyes glassy with exhaustion.
The Duke's chest tightened. This isn't an army, he thought grimly. It's desperation in armor.
They stopped near the supply tent. A soldier, little more than skin and bone, struggled to lift a half-empty sack of rice.
The Duke dismounted immediately.
"How many days' ration is left?" he asked.
The soldier hesitated, glancing at Roung before answering. "Two days, my lord. Maybe three if we stretch the soup."
"And the civilians?"
