Egil, first of the Crown's Hounds, the Butcher of Aracina, brother to Alpheo,looked like a beaten whore with every step he took.
The torchlight caught on his lightly-scarred face, tracing the new lines that shame had carved there. He could feel the eyes of every man in the chamber, Jarza, Asag, Edric, bearing down on him like stones. But it was only one gaze that truly mattered.
Those eyes had once seen something worth saving in him long ago on those sleepless and cold night, bear under the moonlight deprived of dignity and life. Alpheo had pulled him out of the gutter, out of the despair that had been gnawing at his bones, given him a name that carried weight, a purpose that sang of glory. And how had he repaid that?
By spitting in the man's face.
By raising his hand against the one who had given him everything.
He had told himself he had reasons, anger, pride, righteousness.
