The rising sun painted a sliver of horizon in the deep pink of a healing scar and illuminated the sprawl of the camp below. The whinnies of hungry horses carried at this distance even as the usual booms of shelling continued on the far side. Airships hovered above, like dark, ovoid clouds, though fewer were aloft than usual. No Caskentian army encampment should be so still. Mercy upon us all if the front line fell. Wasters would be on us like ants on a crumb. Captain Yancy, the commander of my escort party, conferred with the pickets on duty, their voices rushed. I caught the word “contagious” and immediately brought my horse around. “It’s not believed to be contagious,” I said. The guard held a fist to his chest in salute. Only his eyes were visible between the thick wrap of scarf and hat. “Miss Percival, m’lady, last I heard, a quarter of the men gone ill—” A quarter of the men.
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