The night in the Northern Frontier was bone-chilling, and the towers of Frost Glaive City lay shrouded in wind and snow.
Inside the study, a faint candle flickered, casting mottled light and shadow across the heavy curtains.
Duke Edmund sat in his familiar high-backed chair, wrapped in a thick blanket, yet still unable to stop his fingers from trembling.
His figure was gaunt as a withered branch, with none of the imposing, wall-like strength he had possessed just months before.
He raised his hand and slowly poured the black medicine into his wineglass. Bitterness mingled with strong liquor as he drained it in one swallow, and a twisting, knife-like burn wound its way along his spine.
Yet Edmund did not so much as frown. He merely gazed silently at the opposite wall.
There hung a map of the Northern Frontier, his family tree, and three portraits.
His father, Beltran, had fought three Snow Oath elders to the bitter end, neither sleeping nor retreating for seven days and nights, his spear still gripped in his hand when he died.
His elder brother, Auden, had been gentle and reserved, yet when the Barbarians invaded from the north, he had exhausted the last of his Battle Aura to blow up their commander and cover the main army's retreat.
His eldest son, Make, had died during the Great Rebellion, when a traitor detonated a Demon Explosive Bomb. The entire battle platform had been reduced to ashes, leaving not even his remains behind.
Edmund closed his eyes, and memories long faded with age surfaced in his mind.
Back then, he had been young and hot-blooded, standing atop Frost Glaive City's walls in silver armor as he shouted at his elder brother, Auden.
"Leave drawing the enemy to me! Our family's glory cannot die in your