Eventually, she leaves the river proper and begins picking her way up the hillside. It’s steep, but there are steps cut into the sod at the worst parts, and the main road runs along the ridge above her, from Aymar into the world. As she walks, she passes more remnants of buildings and fortifications. The contravallation has been broken down to rubble, and for a moment, Treila fears that far more than a few months have been stolen from her. This looks like the work of decades.

Or of engineers. She catches sight, at last, of a smaller fortification between her and the road. The camp is small, home to no more than twenty souls, and it stands out stark in the middle of what has become a field of mud. It sits where Etrebia once centralized its command, if the walls that ring it and the emblazoned crates that linger are any indication. The bones of it are hollowed out, surrounded by tents, and a fire burns at the center.

Treila makes for it as quickly as she can, desperate for the world to make sense again.

There are guards, and they bring Treila up short, but they’re not primed to kill. She keeps her eyes down and smiles and uses her quietest voice, tells them a quick little story about her father wanting to know what is happening up here on the ridge, and they let her pass. Make a place for her by the fire and let her warm her chilled hands as they cook their dinner: rabbit and squash, fragrant and safe to eat.

It is all she can do not to swallow it down in feral gulps. She could eat a whole rabbit herself, and long for more. Her carefully managed hunger tries to slip its bonds.

She picks the meat from little bones until she remembers the foot upon the table, its owner nameless, forgotten. It sours her appetite enough that she must appear normal to them.

When her portion is gone, she lets herself drift over to the man she thinks is in charge. He’s not trying to hide it; he didn’t eat with all the rest, and has a beautiful fur-lined cloak. He’s young, with a twice-broken nose, and he inclines his head in greeting when she sidles closer.

She doesn’t want to play the fool, but there are too few people here for her to sell herself as some long-ignored servant. So instead she plays the farmer’s daughter, gawping at the devastation around her.

The man takes pity. Of course he does. “It’s not a pretty sight, is it?” he asks.

No need to ask about the siege directly; anybody close enough to walk here would know the details. But the castle gates are closed. “Has nobody come out?” she asks, gambling.