...the bright light of a summer's afternoon. Blue skies can be seen through the windows, the sounds of a market in full swing waft in on a light breeze. Through two of the windows, towers spike into the sky, the third looks out over unspoilt countryside.

Three tall, arched windows pierce the side of the tower, beneath each a scribe's desk placed to make best use of the light. At each desk sits a grey-robed scribe, each with a page of ornate manuscript in front of them, working on illuminations with a selection of brushes, inks and pens. Only one turns and acknowledges the three figures standing, somewhat stunned, near the doorway to the lower levels.

In the centre of the room, an ornate spiral staircase leads upwards, faint voices drifting down.

The path to righteousness always begins with a single step.

Nathyn took another step, his foot raising a small cloud of dust as it dropped to the ground. His body leaned forward, pulling the small wagon behind him another foot or so forward. The leather cinches that attached him to the wagon cut painfully into his shoulders, even through the gambeson he was wearing.

His eyes were half-blinded from the sweat dripping in them. The only things he heard were his harsh breathing, the creak and shriek of badly oiled wheels, and the faint moans of the injured piled onto the wagon. The various aches and pains in his body had resolved themselves into one vast numbing ache.