Midnight, the bright moon like blood.
No one knows when, but a light mist rose in the middle of the night, the moon casting a faint crimson through the fog, as if foretelling the ominous slaughter of war.
The camp was brightly lit inside, while outside, a team of Celtic warriors guarded the main camp, with several more teams patrolling the night.
Duncan sat cross-legged on a sheepskin mat, bare-chested, his muscles outlined under the flickering candlelight like a mythological statue from ancient Greece. In front of him, a young female slave dressed in simple attire knelt, her expression full of reverence and awe as she respectfully presented a jar of honey wine to Duncan.
The female slave held the honey wine above her head, sneaking a glance at Duncan's abdominal muscles.
Duncan reached out and took it, tilting his head back to drink heartily, a bit of the honey wine spilling, flowing down his rock-hard pectoral muscles.
Hiss!
