Nobody had explained the real hassle of patrol duty in a city at war. The task sounded active, but in practice the primary requirement was endurance. You stood, you watched, and you waited for something to justify the preparation. While standing for some more.
Hod had been watching the streets for two hours. His crossbow was loaded and ready, his spear rested within reach against the corner wall, and the bread he had eaten that morning had already burned off, leaving him aware of the deficit.
Ric, shorter by about a hand and dissatisfied with the assignment since before sunrise cleared the citadel roof, had sat onto an upturned crate. He folded his arms like he had concluded that if the war wanted him, it could come to him directly.
"You know what I had before the militia," Ric said, not talking to anyone in particular. His gaze stayed on the ground near his boots, as if addressing the street itself. "I had a whole morning to myself."
