The next day.
Early Morning.
Amazarak Fallen Nation.
Vane sat on top of a partially constructed building, surrounded by his party members, watching as the Amazarak prisoners lined up for breakfast. Their faces, once gaunt and exhausted, now showed signs of rest and relief as they received bowls of warm stew, fresh bread, and steaming pots of porridge.
Vane watched them with a calm, calculating gaze. Falce stood beside him, her expression thoughtful as she observed the scene.
"Sir Vane."
"Hmm?"
"Is it necessary to waste our resources feeding these prisoners?" she asked, her voice low. "Wouldn't it be better to conserve our supplies for our own forces?"
Vane smirked, nudging his glasses up with a finger. He stood, clasping both hands behind his back, his tone calm and measured.
