The square was full.
People milled about — soldiers, adventurers, mercenaries, cooks, supply carriers, the chaotic, organized mess of a hunting party being assembled by a noble house. Armor was being distributed from a cart, the metal pieces clanking, the leather straps creaking.
Viktor stood at the edge.
He stood out.
Not because of his clothes — his plain shirt and trousers were unremarkable. Because of his face. The pale skin, the violet eyes, the particular, fine-boned, too-pretty quality of a half-demon who had inherited his mother's beauty and his father's ambition. In a crowd of weather-beaten soldiers and scarred adventurers, he looked like a painting that had wandered into a barracks.
A man at the armor cart yelled.
"Here! Suits! Armor! Take one!"
He shoved a breastplate into Viktor's hands — the casual, charity-distribution motion of a quartermaster who had been handing out gear for hours and had stopped caring who received it.
Viktor took it.
He put it on.
