Bram grunted, leaning heavily on a walking axe that had long since lost its edge. "Scraps won't buy us bread in the Lowlands. Assuming the Lowlands haven't burned just as bright as the Ridge."
Silas knelt in the black mud, his fingers tracing the rusted edge of an old infantry shield half-buried in the frost. He wiped away a layer of grime to reveal the faded crest of the 4th Legion—a roaring lion, now blind and scarred by pits of corrosion. Ashes of War [v1.0]
Silas did not look up. He knew the heavy, labored breathing of Bram, his squad’s last surviving shield-bearer. "I know," Silas murmured. "I’m just checking for salvage. Every scrap of iron counts if we are going to make it through the Pass." Bram grunted, leaning heavily on a walking axe
"We move at moonrise," Silas said, standing up and letting the shield fall back into the mud with a dull thud. "Gather the others. Tell them to wrap their boots in wool. The silent-striders are hunting the perimeter again." He wiped away a layer of grime to
Bram spit a dark glob of phlegm into the snow. "How many left, Captain?"