The capital of Bentram breathed with life.
Merchants shouted across crowded streets, children chased one another through narrow alleys, and the scent of roasted meat drifted between rows of stone buildings.
Engineers hauled strange machines from workshops, while soldiers in polished armor marched through the avenues beneath fluttering banners on wall.
To most, it was another ordinary afternoon. To one man, something was terribly wrong.
Arathorn walked alone. The captain of the Iron Jackals had abandoned the welcoming feast without explanation.
Crowds had never suited him. Palaces were cages built from polished stone, and ministers smiled too much for his liking.
He preferred streets, real people, smell of sweat and possible danger.
His weathered boots struck the cobblestones with slow, deliberate rhythm.
Clack.
Clack.
Clack.
