The snowy night was profoundly silent. The man sat by the furnace, sipping local strong beer and frowning slightly. This coarse-grain brew seemed to have only one function—to ward off the cold.
"You've come all this way. Not going to take a look?" Constantine Stewart raised an eyebrow at the man who arrived at the snow mountain, looking sharp and stern even in his heavy winter coat. His eyebrow arched as he smiled.
"No need." Ignatius Leclair drank another can of cheap beer, his eyes lowered as he gazed at the furnace. When had a privileged heir like him ever endured such hardship, using such crude tools to fend off the cold? In this icy wasteland, the wind cutting against his face felt as sharp as a blade.
