The howling northern wind carried the still unmelted ice and snow across the open plains, whipping against the marching party, cutting their faces like knives.
Pal tugged at his cloak and clicked his tongue, "Can this really be called 'spring'? I haven't seen a single blade of grass."
Riding a tall steed, his red and black cloak embroidered with gold thread, he stood out remarkably.
Even in the northern wilderness, he maintained the air of a "young nobleman out on a jaunt."
Not far behind him, Willis kept his head down and wrapped himself tightly in a black cloak, riding silently.
His eyes were constantly patrolling the front and sides, noting the terrain, landscape, climate, and the changes in marching speed, even occasionally noting the collapsed outposts and signs left by beasts along the way.
Pal had never proactively spoken to him, as he actually looked down on this "bastard."
