The wind in Strathmore was different. It didn't smell of pine and earth like it did back home. It smelled of sickness. A heavy, cloying scent of decay and stagnation hung over the borderlands, thicker than the morning mist.
It had been two weeks since the Thompson Army had made camp on the edge of the territory. The tents stretched out in neat rows, a city of canvas and steel.
Derek stood outside his command tent. He wore a simple cloth mask over his nose and mouth, a precaution Marissa had insisted on. He held a small packet of dried herbs in his hand.
"Drink," he ordered the young soldier standing guard. "Every man. Every morning. No exceptions."
The soldier took the packet, bowing. "Yes, Your Grace."
