Night had not yet faded, and the snow kept falling. New Frost Glaive City's outer walls loomed through the blizzard like a silent beast, cold and brooding.
Before dawn, Rudolf arrived at the gates with a personal guard regiment so impeccably ordered that it almost resembled an honor guard.
There was no blood on their armor, and their mounted ranks were straight as arrows on a bowstring, not a step out of place.
If not for the exhaustion and fear in their eyes, they might almost have looked like an army returning in triumph.
Rudolf sat high in the saddle, his expression stern.
After retreating from Windflame Valley, he had even wiped his armor with strong liquor to conceal its scorch marks and bloodstains, all for this respectable entrance.
This was not about dignity. It was about credibility.
If even his bearing betrayed despair, no one would believe another word he said.
Upon reaching New Frost Glaive City, he swung down from his horse, his cloak flaring in the wind, and said gravely, "Rudolf, commander of the Sixth Imperial Army, urgently requests an audience with His Grace to report on the northern front."
The officer guarding the gate stepped forward. Recognizing Rudolf, he dared not delay and immediately went to announce him.
The duke's study was in the main keep's western tower, perched high above the cliff.
Inside, the fire flickered, unable to warm the chill that saturated the stone walls.
Duke Edmund sat alone before the fireplace in an unadorned military uniform, a stark contrast to the wall covered in honors behind him.
In the firelight, the diagonal scar running from his cheekbone to his jaw seemed to be bleeding still.
His fingers rested against the rim of his wine cup, slowly turning it.
A map of Windflame Valley