Darius Rael Darkhelm stood at the highest parapet, where the wind never ceased, and the cold made even the stones brittle. His long hair fluttered, almost fading into the falling snow.
Below, the soldiers trained in silence. There were no songs. No shouts.
Just the rhythmic clash of weapons and the crunch of snow beneath disciplined feet as they fought with both blades and bursts of mana.
The North had always been silent, or at least, the halls of House Darkhelm's palace were always steeped in silence.
It was how His Grace preferred it.
Most men wouldn't have dared stand there so long, exposed to wild mana. But Darius had long ceased being "most men."
Ray stood just a bit away from His Grace, observing everything around him with his sharp gaze.
His breath fogged in front of his face as he snorted soundlessly while he thought about those imbeciles sitting in Myrthiana, the royal capital.
The royals would be wringing their jeweled hands right about now.
