Ten li from Karl's watchtower, at the heart of the Sauron camp, Harald stood amid the frigid dusk before the tallest black oxhide tent, from which the White Wolf King Banner hung.
He wore a heavy cloak of black bear fur, beneath it a finely crafted iron-scaled cuirass already marked by many scratches and patches. One hand rested on the hilt of the gold-adorned curved blade at his waist, while the other held a brass Monocular Telescope captured from the Goldflower Kingdom's Border Army. He strained to peer southward, toward the wasteland gradually swallowed by twilight haze and lingering snowy mist.
The telescope trembled slightly—whether from the cold or sheer exhaustion of mind and body, no one knew. He painstakingly adjusted the focus, his deep-set eyes searching through the icy lens, trying to catch the outline of that blue military camp, its banners, or any sign at all of the enemy's movements amid the dim light and boundless snow.
Yet distance, light, and weather together formed an insurmountable barrier.
At the edge of his vision lay only a blurred, lead-gray horizon and the black silhouettes of a few dead trees huddling in the cold wind. The Carnford camp seemed to have vanished into the snowy plains, or perhaps it was a colossal beast lurking in the dusk, waiting to pounce tomorrow.
After a long while, Harald slowly lowered his arm, now aching from being held aloft, and casually passed the icy brass telescope to Svein, who stood half a step away at his side. There was a trace of fatigue in the motion, so faint it was nearly imperceptible.
"The snow... looks like it's about to stop." Harald watched the last few sparse flakes drift down, his voice dry and hoarse. It sounded as though he were stating a fact,