The winter in Cold Sand Territory had just receded not long ago, yet the wind outside the castle still carried a hint of chill.
As dawn broke, fog rose from the slopes, and the remnants of snow slowly melted along the cracks in the castle walls.
Baron Hold, Lord of Cold Sand, sat in the small hall of the castle; the coarse wooden chair, aged over the years, let out a slight squeak as he sat down.
"Being a lord has become such a hardship..." Hold muttered under his breath, the lines on his face furrowed, as if fearing others in the castle might overhear.
In truth, no one would hear him; apart from his attendant, there were barely any willing to stay in this castle.
Cold Sand Territory was long impoverished. For the past three years, the mines were flooded, and the granaries grew emptier with each passing year.
If not for the salt, grain, timber, and ironware sent by Red Tide, this place would have collapsed long ago.
