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    Summary

    “Move,” one of his captor’s sneered, shoving Vash toward the centermost, grandest tent. His fine slippers slid and suctioned into the stirred-up, wet ground of the main thoroughfare, and he was forced to walk through the freezing mud and horse shit barefoot, the fine silk of his dressing gown dragging through the black muck along with him. They pushed him through the door flap and he froze. King Roderick himself sat within, surrounded by his bungled riches and a plethora of servants, dining sloppily. He looked up from his wine and smirked, pushing a servant girl away.

    “So, you managed to plunder Julai’s greatest treasure, eh?”

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