Aron leaned easily in his saddle, his weight shifting as his horse snorted with his usual wet breath. The beast moved with a sluggish grace through a sea of hostile eyes.It clealry felt uncomfortable as it rode beneath his legs.
Behind them, the walls of Malshut rose like a grey scar against the indifferent blue of the sky. A thin, lonely ribbon of smoke spiraled up from the city's heart, but Aron's focus was forward. He didn't flinch when he heard the heavy, final thud of the wooden gates sealing shut behind them, effectively locking his small party inside the belly of the enemy camp.
Unbothered, he adjusted his mantle. High above on the walls of Malshut, the Falcon of Yarzat snapped in the breeze. Three months ago, the men in this camp had pointed at that banner and made bets on how quickly they would pluck its feathers; they had laughed over their ale at the thought of the Prince's legions's fame ending with them.
