"let's go," Ludwig turned his back to Mot and went toward his party members.
He moved with the casual economy of a man who had learned to carry threat and tiredness at once, shoulders folding into the slope as if the mountain itself were a cloak. Snow crunched faintly under his boots, thin and brittle with cold, and sparks of breath ghosted the space where he walked. The little windows of notification that had flared in his mind earlier winked and dimmed at the edge of his vision; for the moment he pushed them aside. Mot's presence remained at his back like a weight both comforting and dangerous. Ludwig did not hurry his step. There was no need for that among enemies and friends.
"What's the meaning of this, Saint Mot! You're allowing traitors of the Empire and the Holy Order to roam free!"
