The embers in Sunset Canyon had yet to die out completely. The stench of burning mingled with lingering poisonous fog, brewing into a nauseating odor in the damp, chilly autumn wind. To Veylin, however, this was the prelude to establishing order.
On the open ground south of the canyon, a makeshift detention camp was running smoothly.
Fewer than a thousand Grey Sea soldiers, some wielding swords and others holding hand crossbows, systematically directed the flow of prisoners.
"Take off your armor! Drop your weapons! Move right!"
"Officers, step out! Knights, step out! Move left!"
"Anyone too wounded to walk, stay where you are!"
The orders were brief and emotionless.
Veylin stood on a rise, his gaze sweeping over the more than twenty thousand prisoners of war below.
In his eyes, each already bore a label: some were "labor," some "expendables," and some "ransom."
"Screen them and pick out the strongest. I want ten thousand," Veylin ordered the aide beside him without turning his head. "Arrange ships in a while and send them back to White Tower Territory as laborers."
The aide's quill raced across the page.
"Give them something to hope for." Veylin considered for a moment before continuing. "Tell them that as long as they work honestly, those who perform well can become regular serfs before next spring. If they're willing to work hard after that, they can even bring their families over to reunite with them... Once they reach White Tower Territory, they'll soon understand what I mean."
"Yes, my lord! Thanks to your arrangements, these men will have a good life." The aide slipped in a subtle compliment. "What about the remaining ten thousand or so prisoners?"
"Break up their units, remove the officers, then wait to integrate them with the private troops from Golden Thread Province."