Chapter 451: The New Battle Hint (End)
"Good, sir. Thanks to Lady Josephine, we’re stocked—more sacks than shelves."
The baker’s shoulders hitched in a proud shrug, dust rising off his apron like pale smoke. "We even slipped a wagonload to the east ward. Kids there finally taste proper wheat again."
Lyan let his palm rest on the nearest flour bag, feeling the cool give of packed grain beneath coarse burlap. A tiny mole scurried out from behind a crate and vanished into the rain gutter. Details, he thought—every crumb, every creature, every human breath was information.
"Keep two carts readied at the back gate," he said. "If the outer roads shut, we’ll run loaves through alleys instead of boulevards."
"Aye, my lord." The baker straightened, fingers snapping a flour‑salute that sent white specks spiraling in the lantern glow. Lyan tipped an imaginary hat and moved on.
Water pooled in the hollows of cracked paving stones. He stepped around them, letting the rhythm of his boots set a steady cadence—one he hoped the city’s heartbeat would mimic once the new terror blew in. Ahead, small voices drifted like birdsong. A cluster of children knelt under a tattered awning, their knees soaked dark where chalk met wet stone. Two girls worked together on a bright pink shield, while a freckled boy scribbled angry orange flames shooting from a lopsided bird labelled VUTR.
The tallest spotted Lyan first. Eyes round as marbles, he scrambled upright and snapped a salute so stiff his elbow popped. A stub of blue chalk still wedged between his fingers like a ceremonial dagger.
Lyan slowed, rain slicking his hair against his brow. He returned the gesture with a soldier’s crispness and crouched beside the drawings. "Looks fierce," he murmured, tracing a line that wavered under drizzle. "But your defenders need taller boots." He added quick strokes to lengthen the front soldier’s legs; the boy’s gasp of awe felt bigger than trumpets. When Lyan stood again, all four children mirrored the salute. Their wide smiles sliced straight through the fog gathering in his chest.
He turned down Barrel Street, where two wiry brothers wrestled with a wagon wheel under a drooping canvas tarp. Grease streaked their cheeks, and each time thunder rumbled they grinned harder—as if daring the sky to break something else. One lifted a rusty wrench in greeting. "She’ll ride again by morning, Baron. Fancy new spoke‑pins courtesy o’ yer quartermaster."
"So will the rest of us," Lyan answered. He helped brace the axle long enough for them to slide a block beneath, then left them arguing cheerily over whose hammer swing was straighter.
All the while his gaze catalogued lamplight and shadow: which torches guttered low, which alley mouths lounged too silent, where drizzle hid the glint of blades tucked beneath cloaks. He noted a drunk mercenary snoring beneath an overturned boat and made a mental note for Alice’s patrols. Peace lingered, yes—fragile as eggshell—but it lived.