The night was cold, the wind sharp.
Yet the slopes of Horsepasture Hill were unusually lively.
Though called a "hill," Horsepasture was in truth a steep, solitary rise. Midway up, the slope dipped inward unexpectedly, forming a wide, natural hollow—sheltered from the wind and spacious enough to house a hundred troops, over two hundred warhorses and pack animals, and still have room to spare.
If it weren't for the lack of water, this place would've long become a den for bandits.
Tonight, the Eagle Legion indulged themselves, lighting no fewer than eleven bonfires. The fires crackled merrily, faint wisps of smoke drifting up into the night like gentle kitchen steam, lending the place a rare sense of warmth.
The soldiers gathered in groups of ten, mostly maintaining their original units, though plenty had mingled into "composite squads." It made little difference. The energy was the same everywhere.
