The mountain air at the Southern border was biting, a cold that seeped into the marrow of one's bones. But for Lucius, the cold was a familiar companion. He had just finished overseeing the final displacement of the Snow Tribe—a delicate operation that required both the iron fist of a General and the tact of a diplomat. The Snow Tribe was finally settled, their threat neutralized and their cooperation secured.
Lucius wiped the soot from his forehead as he passed the temporary outpost the Dwarven engineers had constructed near the supply station. He was looking forward to a brief moment of silence before the long ride back to the estate.
However, silence was the last thing he found.
Inside the station, the voices of Glint and Harry drifted through the thin wooden partitions. They were speaking in hushed, urgent tones—the kind of tones men used when they thought their commander was out of earshot.
