The command tent was ablaze with joy.
Six hours had passed since the shattered remnants of the Herculeian army had limped away, their backs open to the blades and spears of the Yarzat host. And for six hours now, the tent had echoed with the sounds of celebration—laughter, toasts, and the warm clinking of cups filled and refilled with heady red wine.
It was the sort of victory that commanders dream of, clean, decisive, and, most of all, easy.
Lords clasped each other's shoulders and shouted praise loud enough to shake the canvas walls. Servants weaved through them with platters of roasted meat and spiced fruits, their hands barely keeping up with the demands. Men who had never spoken before the campaign now shared flasks like old friends, bonded by the sweet intoxication of triumph.
