Two soldiers stood in front of the great wooden gates of Herculia, their spears resting idly against their shoulders. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows on the cobbled road leading into the city, but neither of them paid it much mind. It had been a quiet day—too quiet for their liking.
"By the gods, this is dull," grumbled the first soldier, a broad-shouldered man with a patchy beard. His name was Myron, and boredom, it seemed, had become his greatest enemy. "I swear, if one more beggar plead with me to enter the city, I'm going to run him through just to see some excitement."
"Go ahead," said the other, a younger, leaner man called Darios. "Wouldn't make much of a difference. All they do is whine and beg. You'd be doing the city a favor."
"That's what I'm saying," Myron huffed. "It's the same thing every day. What I wouldn't give for something interesting."
