The thunder of hooves reached them before the riders did, its drumming vibrating through the very marrow of Lothar's bones. Out of the shifting gray veil of the morning mist, the twin gatehouses of the city, once the proud capital of Oizen now an another addition jewel to Yarzat, emerged like the bleached ribs of a giant ghost. As they drew closer, the silhouettes of the approaching party solidified, though they remained curiously blurred against the white horizon until they were a mere stone's throw away.
The reason for their spectral appearance became clear as they closed the distance: the riders were draped in heavy white cloaks that mirrored the fog.
The prince had sent his own guard as the welcoming party.
"Greetings, Legate," Rut called out as they drew closer, his voice rasping as he offered a sharp, respectful bow from his saddle.
