The soldiers' celebration was already in full swing by the time Lilith slipped through the back door of the garrison's common room. The space was crowded, hot with bodies and too many torches, the air thick with the smell of spilled ale, sweat, and the particular pungency of men who had spent weeks in the field without proper baths.
A sergeant with a nose that had been broken so many times it resembled a misshapen potato slammed his tankard on the table. "Thirty! Thirty demons I killed with my own hands!"
"Thirty? I saw you hiding behind Vedran the whole battle!"
"It's called tactics, you milk-sop!"
A fight broke out near the hearth, was resolved with fists, and the participants were drinking together again within minutes.
Lilith found a shadowed corner near the kitchens, her back against the wall, her presence already forgotten by the revelers. She watched them with the patient disinterest of a cat observing mice.
