The snow outside Aegis still carried the stains of war. Patches of red clung stubbornly to the frozen earth where blood had melted through the drifts before turning brittle in the night.
The battlefield had been cleared, the bodies burned or buried–only the scars remaining.
Inside the long hall, warmth pressed back against the cold as if it could deny the truth beyond the walls.
The building itself was no more than a collection of planks hammered together with urgency, the roof sagged under the weight of ice.
Smoke curled up towards the beams and braziers that were lined in the room gave off more smoke than flame.
Yet compared to the silence of the graveyard outside, the noise inside felt alive.
The tables were uneven, patched from wood gathered by the Tribesmen. Lamb roasted over spits, dripping fat into the firepits, bowls of vegetables were boiled until they gave off steam. Mead sloshed from barrels into cups, the thick liquid sticky on the floor where it spilled.
