The smoke came before the news.
Lysander saw it from the northern tower — three pillars of black rising from the eastern fields, thick and slow, climbing into the grey morning sky like fingers reaching for something they couldn't touch.
"They're burning the wheat," Paris said. He was beside Lysander, his bow in hand, his eyes tracking the smoke. "The winter crop. Everything we planted in the autumn."
"I see it."
"Can we stop them?"
"No."
Paris looked at him. "No?"
"They have four thousand men between us and those fields. We don't have the numbers to sortie, fight them, and get back inside before reinforcements arrive." Lysander kept his eyes on the smoke. "They know that. That's why they're doing it in daylight. They want us to watch."
Paris was quiet for a moment. His jaw tightened. His fingers moved on the bowstring — a small, unconscious motion. The need to shoot something. Anything.
"How much did we lose," he asked.
"The eastern fields were forty percent of our grain."
