Vilon took another slow sip of the sweet sheep's milk, a strange, profound respect quietizing his cynical heart. This last half-year on the campaign trail had been far more revealing for him than the entirety of his previous seventeen years on this earth.
Safe highways completely free of banditry, bustling roads lined with inns open for business, passing merchants with wagons overflowing with goods, and quiet valley villages equipped with brand-new iron tools and thriving herds.
He paused for a moment, letting his wooden spoon rest against the rim of his bowl as he took it all in. This was an undeniably beautiful place to live. Having spent his youth on the road, he had seen pretty much all there was to see of the world's misery. He had seen enough villages struck by hollow-cheeked hunger, plagued and blackmailed by vicious bandits who would take women and children hostage in exchange for food and a place to hide from the royal patrolling parties.
