"Rich people complain about money too. The difference is, their complaints won't kill them."
***
He rewrapped his spear with care. Each strip of leather went exactly where it belonged, following the pattern his father had taught him on his tenth birthday.
The ritual provided comfort. A tangible connection to home and to the weathered man with scarred hands who had taught him that a weapon's true worth lay not in how much gold it cost or how pretty its decorations. It lay in the hands that wielded it.
A masterwork blade in the hands of a fool was just expensive scrap metal. A simple spear in the hands of a master was death incarnate.
His walk back toward the dormitories took him past areas where early-rising students had begun to gather. Through windows that glowed with warm lamplight, he glimpsed the other houses preparing for the day.
