Thwack.
"You're dead!" one boy cried, proudly thrusting his wooden stick toward the other's chest."No I'm not!" the second answered, stumbling back with a grin and raising his own sword-shaped branch like a knight from some old tale
''You hit the arm''
"You are!"
"Am not!"
"You are if I say so—I'm Vrivrian the Red!"
"You can't be , I already called him!"
They were no older than ten, cheeks red with the rush of imagined glory, breath quick, eyes bright. Around them, the cobblestones were streaked with sun, and the air smelled faintly of baking bread and smoke from morning fires. Their laughter was high and clear and small enough to be swallowed by the wind.
Thwack. Thwack. THWACK.
The sound echoed again—louder now. Heavier.
But it wasn't from their game anymore.
It came from the square beyond the alley, where hundreds of men stood in ranks—boots planted in dust, shields raised in tight unison, spears pulled back and slammed forward in the rhythm of war.
