A fireplace burned inside the tower, the logs crackling as warmth slowly spread between the stone walls. The heavy window frames kept out the cold wind, leaving only the muffled patter of rain against the glass.
Kyle Raymont stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, draped in a heavy fur cloak.
He held a glass of red wine, its dark contents resembling a slowly flowing layer of blood in the firelight.
He raised a powerful telescope to his eye and looked through the curtain of rain toward Blackstone Gorge, several kilometers away.
The scene there was hellish.
The gorge entrance was packed solid. Tens of thousands of refugees crowded into the narrow passage, their bodies pressed together as they slowly crawled through the mud.
The downpour washed over the filth. The occasional cries and screams were torn apart by wind and rain, reaching the tower as nothing more than a low, continuous wash of noise.
The corners of Kyle's mouth rose slightly.
To him, it was not chaos, but a nearly flawless work of art.
He shifted the telescope farther out.
Outside Blackstone Gorge, Louis's Iron Tide had stopped, just as expected.
Steam War Chariots lined the gorge entrance, their heavy steel silhouettes barely visible through the rain, like a pack of beasts forced to halt.
Facing that barrier of flesh and blood, they remained motionless.
Kyle lowered the telescope and gently swirled his wine. "Look. What a perfect defensive line."
A trace of satisfaction colored his voice.
"Not a single brick or stone needed. Just a pack of useless mouths, and we've stopped the Northern Frontier's sharpest fangs."
A knight stepped forward and offered Kyle a hot towel.
"Young lord..." He paused, his tone still respectful, but deliberately lowered his voice. "Louis has indeed been stopped. It's just... those are tens