The wind of the northern plains was sharp enough to cut through armor.
Dust rose like ghosts across the dry land, carrying the faint smell of steel, sweat, and old blood.
Duke Lian reined his horse at the ridge overlooking the camp, his cloak whipping in the bitter wind.
Rows of tents stretched across the horizon, their banners frayed, their fires dull. Soldiers moved like shadows—disciplined but tired.
The Duke's jaw tightened.
So this is the state of the frontier they claimed was "under control."
A horn sounded from below.
The main tent stirred, and a tall man stepped out—a soldier with broad shoulders, bronze skin tanned from years beneath the sun. His armor bore the scars of many battles, but his eyes were bright and unyielding.
"General Roung," the Duke greeted, dismounting.
"Duke Lian." The general bowed stiffly, his voice respectful but cautious. "His Majesty sent word you'd come. I wasn't sure whether to expect a politician or a warrior."
