The evacuation had been orderly. The return was not.
Lysander watched from the northern gate as families streamed back into the settlement, carrying the bundles they had carried away three days before. Children ran ahead of their parents, chasing each other between the shelters. Old men walked slowly, leaning on sticks, their faces weary but relieved. The black ships were gone. The danger had passed. Life was resuming.
But the order Maea had maintained during the evacuation was fraying at the edges. Lysander could see it in the way people clustered at the distribution point, their voices sharper than they had been, their patience thinner. Three days of fear and disruption had taken a toll that the relief of survival couldn't fully erase.
"Six fights since dawn," Miros said, appearing at his elbow. "None serious. But they're increasing."
"Over what."
