Dusk hung over the wilderness outside the Empire's northern gate like a veil of dirty gold.
Two skinny horses blended into the sparse stream of people entering the city, their hooves crushing the frozen mud churned by wagon ruts, making a dry creaking sound.
On the horse in front sat a middle-aged man wrapped in a linen cloak; the edges of the cloak were worn to fuzz and caked with dust from the road.
He pressed his hood very low, as if unwilling to let any gaze linger on his face.
His name was Valerius, and he was a Viscount.
Riding beside him, the Knight Cassian wore no cloak, only buttoned his outer coat tight.
The man had been silent all the way, even suppressing his coughs; his gaze never left the edges of the crowd and the road.
Valerius knew Cassian did not believe in those soothing words that eased the heart; he believed only in the sword in his hand.
As for Valerius… he preferred to put his faith in other things.
He laid one hand against his chest.
