"What is going on in here?" the loud, nerve-grating voice of one of the people Ludwig least wanted to see echoed from behind the doorway.
The Hero stepped into the chamber with his holy sword already drawn.
Hiro looked older than when Ludwig had last planted his head into the snow and introduced his face to winter. Not wiser, unfortunately. Just older. The same self-righteous glare sat on his face, polished by praise and surrounded by people who had spent far too much time telling him that being chosen meant being correct. His armor was bright, his sword even brighter, and behind him the priests and paladins seemed to regain a measure of confidence just from his presence.
That annoyed Ludwig more than the sword.
