...The mercenary captain inspected the shipment of armor with a practiced eye. Twenty recruits needed outfitting, and muddy red was all the purse allowed. It wasn't the red of heroes. It was the red of the street watch, of dock guards, of anyone who needed to look official without costing the treasury much. His quartermaster had negotiated well. The dye would hold. It always did. Cheap didn't mean fragile.

A widow pulled the muddy red cloth tight around her daughter's shoulders. They couldn't afford the indigo dyes the wealthy wore. This was what the city offered them. But it was warm. It was whole. It would last through another season, another winter. The girl didn't question it. She knew, already, that some people wore red because they chose to. Others wore it because it was available and there was no choice left to make.