The land changed slowly at first.
So slowly that Serena did not notice it until Julius reined his horse in and let the moment breathe.
They had crested a low rise, leaving behind the last of the wild hills and broken stone, and before them stretched a broad sweep of green.
Fields.
Not abandoned ones choked by weeds and neglect, but living fields—rows cut clean and straight, dotted with figures bent to honest work.
Irrigation channels glinted faintly in the sunlight, carrying water from distant streams with quiet efficiency.
Windmills turned lazily in the distance, their sails new, their wood unscarred by rot.
Smoke curled from chimneys.
Nice white smoke from bakeries and the like produced their good in bulk for the consumption of the entire village, unlike the black smokes seen from the burning of goods, bodies or lands he had seen to many times already when on campaign.
Serena drew in a sharp breath.
"This…" she said softly, "…this is your homeland, isn't it?"
