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The duke honours his brother with a prize office. It’s hard to grumble when such honours are laid at your feet, but it’s also a poisoned chalice.
The city’s churches made meagre efforts to help the poor and unfortunate, but it was simply paying lip service to their credos. They viewed the decoration of their shrines, churches and cathedrals as being far more important than caring for the gods’ most unfortunate children.
For all their fine clothes and fancy swords, there was nothing of substance in Torona. Everything was a facade. The men who had the most were worth the least. He had not been there long, but already Wulfric hated Torona.
It was impossible to live a life as long as his without regrets, and he had done his best to reconcile himself to that fact. He was doing all he could at that time, which was all he could ask of himself. What was in the past was in the past.
Wulfric walked to a window and punched the hilt of his sword through it. ‘I found another door,’ he said, not waiting for the others before clambering through.
Gentlemen, Jagovere had told him, don’t fight with kicks, punches, or head-butts. The thought made him smile. What the gentlemen didn’t seem to realise was that Wulfric wasn’t fighting, he was killing.
