"So, these are the new additions to my force?"
The voice was like silk drawn over a whetstone, belonging to the man who had been the architect of every nightmare that had plagued the Prince of Oizen for three bitter years, much to the man's unawareness.
Around him, the atmosphere of the Port of Aracina was a mayhem that only a maritime and commercial town could have.
The shrill cries of street hawkers, the rhythmic thud of crates hitting timber, and the polyglot hubbub of a thousand souls echoed in the crisp, salt-tinged summer air.
For a fleeting moment, the man allowed his focus to drift from the ledger in his hand, surrendering his senses to the spectacle of a progress that defied all reason.
A decade had vanished since he first stood upon these stones. Then, he had been a sellsword, a nameless blade in a mercenary company hired by the desperate Prince of Yarzat to hold the line against an Oizenian tide, the same one three years afterward they would break.
