A bystander with grand dreams.
That was what Vilon had always been.
He had suffered many pains throughout his miserable existence, but none cut deeper than the gnawing, venomous bite of guilt. It would forever sit in his chest, its sharp claws tearing at his insides, refusing to let him forget, refusing to let him ever forgive himself. For a time he had managed to ignore it, to live his life.A life that was not his , a life he was borrowing.
But it had all come back, as it always did.
A life spent wandering the dirt roads was not the noble adventure song-singers lied about; not all men were built to sleep in frozen ditches, and few could endure its brutal severities. His father had learned to survive the misery by wielding it as a weapon. During the long, agonizing years Vilon had trailed behind the man like a beaten hound, he had rarely seen him draw his steel for a righteous cause. Never, not once, unless there was gold to be had.
