Back at the eastern tree, the guards moved with the clumsiness of those who had been trained to obey a different law. They cut Liora's ropes with practiced hands. The knots fell away like slow snowfall. She sagged for a moment as if the ropes had become part of weight and when they fell free she caught herself on the raw marrow of being: standing, living, breathing.
They offered her the cloak. It had been kept until the last folded, stained with dust and some of the courtyard's grim. Nyssa was there, hair loose, eyes wet and wide. She reached to fasten the cloak about Liora's shoulders with hands that trembled more from hope than from cold.
For a flash, everything was small and bright, the silver clasp between Liora's collarbones, the way the fabric laid over her back like an old promise. Men moved around them, running to the lines, shouting, grabbing helmets. The field called like a mouth open ready.
