"Look at him. His Grace looks... eager. He must really be looking forward to gutting some frost-trolls this year."
"Eager? My man, he looks like a cat that's cornered by a bowl of cream. It's unnatural. If he starts whistling, I'm deserting. I can handle monsters, but a happy Duke is a bad omen for the weather."
"Oi! Stop gawking at the Duke and tighten your own straps, you lot!"
The courtyard was a symphony of miserable noises.
It was that specific, ungodly hour before the sun even considers showing its face, the kind of cold that doesn't just nip at your skin but seems to chew right through to the marrow. Fog, thick and smelling of wet stone and horse breath, swirled around the ankles of hundreds of men. Soldiers were shouting, leather was creaking, and the rhythmic clank-clink of plate armor provided a constant, metallic heartbeat to the chaos.
At the center of this swirling mess stood Zarius.
