They walked through the streets of a conquered and tamed city, the heavy crunch of Vilon's iron boots keeping rhythm with the lighter footfalls of the legionaries. Vilon kept to one side of the grand road, his hazel eyes drifting upward to watch the wooden tenements that peered down from either side of the thoroughfare, leaning over the cobbles like old men huddled in prayer.
Most of his life, he and his father had evading cities entirely. Cities meant gates, gates meant toll-collectors, and tolls meant parting with coins they rarely had. It was hard to find honest work for a hedge knight within stone walls, unless a jousting tourney was being held. In those rare, golden moments, his father would always confidently pay the entry toll, strut into the lists with his chest puffed out, lose his very first match, and spend the night drinking away their last copper while muttering, "Next time will be ours, boy. Next time."
But it had never been their time.
