Heaps and riots of caravans clogged the roads closest to the city, but far out in the countryside, fleeing the flames was lonely work.

It was a family crowded around a single cart, pleading for their only mule to pull a little faster. A woman leading the nervous pony on which her pregnant wife rode, casting glances back at a crawl of blue fire that never seemed quite far enough in the distance.

It was children walking alone sometimes, stooped under the packs strapped to their backs by someone who, for whatever reason, frailty of the flesh or spirit, couldn’t flee with them. It was a woman herding six along with promises of rest just over the next ridge, warm beds and baths, who, despite her haggard face, would gather any of those lonely children she came across into her company.

It was travellers joining together that way wherever they met, relieved almost beyond speaking to hear the sound of other human voices. They walked and talked together in low tones, trying to distract each other from looking back, from wondering what might be left of their homes when that cold blue flame of spellwork rampant finally burned itself out.