The night was waning, yet before it surrendered to dawn, a bitter cold enveloped the land. The wind had grown sharper with each passing hour, slipping through armor seams and biting exposed skin.
In the campsite set up by Commander Gallo Francis and the others, the knights on watch were shivering in their cloaks. They held them closer to their bodies in an attempt to push off the chill that had penetrated into their bones. Commander Gallo Francis was among those on the last watch of the night. Moving along the edges of the camp with slow, measured steps, he felt the bitter cold clawing at him. He could not endure it anymore; he paused behind a thick trunk of a large olive tree. The rough bark scraped faintly against the metal of his armor as he leaned against it for a moment.
