The noon sun hung high and cruel in the Strathmore sky, baking the stone square of the capital. The air was mixed with the coolness of the coming winter and the warmth of the sun above.
Carlos leaned against a wagon wheel, his chest heaving. His fine uniform was stained with sweat under the arms and down the back. His hands, which he had tried to protect, were dusty and sore. He felt like a dog that had been run too hard.
He wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief that was already damp. He looked around the busy square. Soldiers were carrying crates. Derek was directing the flow of the line, his energy seemingly endless.
Carlos felt a prickle on the back of his neck.
It was a familiar sensation. The feeling of eyes boring into his skin. He had felt it since they left the capital. He looked around furtively, scanning the faces of the soldiers, the villagers, the guards. Everyone seemed busy, but the feeling persisted. Someone was watching him.
