As soon as the words spilled from the scouts' lips, Sandon recognized the situation for exactly what it was: a trap.
Even a fool could see the edges of the deception, and the more the scout babbled, the more convinced Sandon became.
The man reported that the rebels had meticulously spread the grain into dozens of smaller, separate piles across the city squares. It was a queer way to handle a burning; if it was truly ash that the Lord of Epietoli desired, one great mountain of wheat and a single torch would have sufficed. By separating the stores, they were intentionally slowing the destruction, making it look as though the prize could still be saved if only the royal host arrived in time.
It was as plain as the sky. A lure. A trap.
