Inside the tower, the fireplace crackled, the warmth slowly spreading through the stone walls, with the cold wind barred by the heavy window frames, leaving only the dull sound of raindrops hitting the glass.
Kael Remont draped in a heavy fur cloak, stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window.
He held a glass of red wine in his hand, the deep color of the liquid resembling a slow-flowing layer of blood in the firelight.
He pressed the high-powered binoculars against his eyes, gazing beyond the rain to the Black Stone Gorge several kilometers away.
It was a hellish scene.
The entrance to the gorge was packed airtight, tens of thousands of refugees squeezed into the narrow passage, bodies sticking together, slowly wriggling in the mud.
The torrential rain washed away the filth, with occasional bursts of cries and screams shredded by the wind and rain, reaching here only as a persistent, low hum.
Kael's lips curled slightly.
