Hans counted all eighty-two villagers as the evacuation column gathered on the orchard road, then signaled his spearmen to close ranks.
Twenty-three households stood beside the mill channel bridge, their belongings bundled into neat canvas rolls without a single dropped kettle.
"Grandma Hessa, let our spearmen carry your chest," Hajin offered gently, stepping up to the elderly matriarch.
"These old legs carried me across four frontier famines, Lord Hajin," the silver-haired grandmother smiled through wrinkled eyes.
"A three-mile stroll to the mountain shelters is a holiday compared to harvesting winter rye... wouldn't you agree?"
"Even so, you should not carry burdens when our soldiers have strong shoulders," he insisted, signaling two spearmen forward.
The elderly woman wiped a tear from her cheek, staring at the young lord with deep, reverent gratitude in her eyes.
