The morning cold was straight-up vicious. It was that specific brand of Northern cold that turned a man's lungs into a lattice of glass shards with every inhale. Usually, Zarius met this hour with a face carved from the very glaciers he commanded, stony, unyielding, and perpetually radiating a "do not speak unless the world is ending" energy. But today? Today, the Great Duke of the North looked like a man who had secretly discovered a second sun and tucked it into his breast pocket.
He was standing by the primary supply wagon, hands clasped behind his back, firing off logistical coordinates to the vanguard knights. His voice was steady, yes, but there was a certain… buoyancy to it. Something about the way he spoke felt different today, lighter, more in sync.. He even paused to offer a curt, approving nod to a junior scout who had tripped over his own scabbard, an act of mercy so rare it nearly caused a secondary pile-up of confused knights.
