November 10, 1444 of the Imperial Calendar was a rare sunny day.
The morning mist was blown away by the bright red sun among the mountains, and the sky was as blue as freshly dyed silk, smooth and clear.
The sky cloaked the ring-shaped mountains of the Blackbone Marsh, and below lay the Joan of Arc Castle.
The Joan of Arc Castle seemed like a gray patch, sewn onto the pale yellow grasslands by the white canal.
And the refugee camp was the stitching of this patch.
In the open space outside the camp, Horn exhaled a breath of mist tinged with orange by the sunlight, and immediately shivered.
The weather was getting colder.
However, Jeanne, who was always an early riser, didn't come to supervise Horn's knight breathing exercises this morning, which surprised him a bit.
Was it because the cold weather made her sleep in? Or was she angry because I forgot to announce our engagement yesterday?
Standing up from the grass, a creek flowed across Horn's line of sight.
