This was the first time he had ever truly laid eyes on a military camp, and it was nothing like the songs.
His eyes darted everywhere, fueled by a restless curiosity. He watched the legionnaires marching with a rhythmic, heavy tread through the dirt lanes of the camp. Most of them bowed their heads as he passed, recognizing the falcon stitched onto his fine wool cloak and the striking green of his eyes, a trait as famous in Yarzat as the Prince's own obsidian armor.
The Sword of Yarzat was a cold and sharp tool that tended to silence anyone foolish enough to scorn the Prince, and its fame was about to be tested once more.
The camp wasn't just made of soldiers, he had realised for along the way, he passed blacksmiths with soot-stained faces, hammering away at dented helmets or scraping rust from the edges of axes and daggers.
The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke, wet horse, and hot metal.
