Alpheo rode tall in the saddle, his sharp eyes scanning the roads of Aracina, the salt-tinged breeze a familiar reminder of the town's place by the sea. Beside him, Ratto rode silently, his compact frame hunched slightly as he occasionally glanced at the Golden Steeds, the company of sixty men, all in gleaming gilded armor following behind. The rhythmic clinking of chainmail and the steady beat of hooves on cobblestones echoed like a heartbeat through the streets.
Alpheo allowed himself a moment of reflection, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he recalled his first days in this very town. Aracina was more than just a, coastal settlement of the crownland to him—it was the birthplace of his rise in these lands. One year and some months ago, he had been no more than a sellsword when fate intertwined him with the late Prince Arkawatt. Tasked with holding Aracina until the royal army could arrive.
