These had been good days. Strange, violent, and soaked in blood, but undeniably good.
Despite the whistling near-misses with the grave, the hidden betrayal, and the hollow claw of insecurity that had followed him for leagues, Vilon could not remember the last time his heart felt this light.
He was no longer a ghost drifting through the freezing sleet of the high road. For the first time since he had pulled his father's stained woolen cloak and notched iron blade from the old man's stiffening corpse, he felt like a true knight. Not merely because he wore mail and carried steel, but because of what he had carved out with it.
He may have not sworn oaths, but he meant to keep them.
He leaned back into the thick, cushioned chair that deigned to seat his bruised arse, letting out a breath as a servant tipped a heavy pitcher over his goblet. He took a long draft, expecting the sharp, bitter bite of cheap camp sour-rot, only to frown as a crisp, honeyed sweetness burst across his tongue.
