The night had settled deep over the northern plains, and the cold felt sharper than ever.
Seventeen days had passed since the empire's army reached the north, and two days had gone by since they built the Pontoon Bridge and crossed over it.
Now they were marching toward the main estate of Ravan Tramplin, step by step through wind that stung like needles.
They had finally stopped for the night. Tents rose across the snow-covered ground.
Every few steps, a campfire burned.
Soldiers huddled close, laughing, sharing stories, warming their frozen hands while the wind tried its best to bite at their ears.
It wasn't peaceful, exactly, but it was the closest thing to comfort one could find this far north.
At one of the campfires, three men sat shoulder to shoulder, wine warming their throats more than the flames warmed their bodies.
Vice General Raven sat with his back straight, still getting used to his new title.
