Vultures wheeled overhead as the soldiers began the initial cleanup of the battlefield. They piled the bodies together, forming one horrifying mound after another. The soldiers couldn't understand why Lord Suleiman had ordered the Wildlings buried in mass graves. As far as they were concerned, the Wildlings deserved to be left to rot in the wilderness, their bodies devoured by vultures and wild dogs, their souls denied peace.
But Lord Suleiman's orders could not be disobeyed. Fear, trust, and reverence mingled in their hearts. They could no longer tell whether they feared him more or revered him more. But they knew one thing for certain: his orders must never be defied.
The soldiers began laboriously digging pits, occasionally kicking the dead Wildlings with all their might, as if even death could not atone for the sins they had committed in life.
Just then, a rush of hoofbeats drew nearer, breaking the oppressive stillness of the makeshift camp.
A messenger rode into the camp like a madman on a foam-mouthed Wildling pony. The pony let out a mournful whinny, its legs buckled, and it collapsed to the ground.
The messenger tumbled off its back. Paying no heed to the dust covering him, he scrambled toward Suleiman's tent.
"My lord!"
He cried out hoarsely and held aloft a letter sealed with wax. Then his eyes rolled back, and his body crumpled to the ground. The long journey had drained him of all his strength, and he had fainted on the spot.
Suleiman took the letter and broke the wax seal. There were only a few words on the page.
"Something has happened at the Trident. Return at once."
Suleiman's pupils contracted slightly. He didn't even notice that his fingers had unconsciously tightened around the letter. Had history already been changed? He could