Newborn Town's square had never been so crowded.
An ornate black carriage stood in the center. Four pure-white horses pawed restlessly at the ground, puffing clouds of warm breath from their nostrils.
Eight knights in silver chain mail surrounded the carriage, their hands resting silently on their sword hilts as their sharp eyes surveyed the surroundings.
The townspeople instinctively backed away. Even their whispers died out, leaving only a stifling tension in the air.
The carriage door opened.
A black leather boot, polished so brightly it reflected people's faces, cautiously emerged, as though testing for something filthy.
Finally, with no other choice, it came down on Newborn Town's muddy ground.
Barnaby Menethil, a middle-aged man as plump as a loaf of white bread, eased himself out of the carriage.
The moment he found his footing, he pulled a spotless silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and ostentatiously covered his nose and mouth. His brows were drawn together tightly enough to crush a fly.
Barrett, captain of the Garrison, stepped forward with his hand on his sword hilt.
"Who goes there? State your identity."
Barnaby's gaze settled on Barrett's blind eye, and his mouth twisted, his expression seeming to say, A defective one, at that.
Only then did he speak, his voice rising and falling in a theatrical singsong.
"A one-eyed guard in some little border town thinks he's fit to question His Lordship the marquis's envoy?" His voice was shrill and thin, brimming with superiority. "Get out of my way! Tell that lord of yours who lucked into everything to get his ass out here and meet me!"
Veins instantly bulged on the back of Barrett's sword hand, and a dangerous flame kindled in his remaining right eye.
Several guards behind him instinctively reached for their weapons as well.
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