The fire died at the third hour.
Not because they put it out. Because there was nothing left to burn. The western wing of the northern granary was gone — timber roof collapsed, stone walls blackened, the grain inside reduced to ash and smoke. The eastern wing held. Half the grain survived. The other half did not.
The oil reserves were gone. Every jar. The fire had reached the storage room and the clay had cracked in the heat and the oil had fed the flames and the flames had eaten everything.
Lysander stood in the smoke. His face was black. His hands were black. His cloak was burned at the edge where a spark had caught.
Four months of grain. Gone. Two months burned. The oil — gone.
He did not count. Counting was for later. Counting was for when the fighting stopped.
The horns were still blowing.
He ran.
The northern wall was hell.
