This had been, by far, the second-worst week of Thalien's life.
He walked slowly along the ramparts, armor clinking softly with each step, a hollow sound lost beneath the groans of wind and the distant, irregular sobbing that never quite seemed to stop anymore. Around him, the wall teemed with exhausted men—soldiers by name, but most too young, too old, or too green to deserve the title.
They leaned on spears or lay slumped against stone, eyes sunken, faces blackened with soot.
He had long lost count of how many times the city had caught fire.
If not for Herculia's abundance of wells, they'd have already been dead—burnt or parched into husks. Yet, even the ample water could do little to stop the spread of flame when entire sections of the city ignited at once.
Buckets could only carry so much.
