Raymond Duchy, Thorn Territory, the moonlight shines brightly.
Viscount Ironthorn stood on the castle terrace, his short gray-white hair glinting subtly under the moonlight.
His posture was as upright as a sword, and the years had etched a few dignified lines on his sharply defined face, yet it did not diminish his aura in the least. His cold gray eyes squinted slightly, like two unsheathed daggers, scrutinizing the night outside the window.
It was the look he had during the border wars in his youth, now instinctively resurfacing whenever he faced any threat.
Viscount Ironthorn was already approaching fifty this year.
However, he himself was an advanced warrior, and his title was not solely inherited from his family, and with proper maintenance, he looked as if he were not yet forty.
"A bunch of beasts, far more cunning than I expected."
Viscount Ironthorn sneered and said.
The viscount's eldest son, Edmund, was also by his side.
