The road ahead wound like a pale ribbon through the green hills, the sun glinting off iron and leather as the company marched toward the great capital . Fifty riders, proud and straight-backed, led the way, their horses snorting and stamping the earth with rhythmic certainty. Behind them, twenty warriors on foot trudged, their boots stirring dust clouds as they bore their boots down on the dirt.
At the very tip of the column rode two figures, side by side. One was young and full of restless energy, his broad shoulders squared, his brown hair whipping behind him in the breeze.
Torghan, son of the wild hills and newly blooded chieftain, held his reins easily, his every movement betraying the vigor of youth touched at last by the glory of battle. At his side rode Maraya, his sister — older by a handful of years.
