Everything was calm in the Empire's camp.
The soldiers trained. The generals laughed around fire pits. The banners stood straight in the cold wind.
But in the north, things were not calm at all.
The Tramplins were uneasy. And their patriarch, the self-declared King of the North, was the most uneasy of all.
Inside the throne room, he walked back and forth on the highest platform.
His boots hit the stone floor again and again. Step. Turn. Step. Turn.
His hand was shaking slightly as he held an unfolded letter.
The paper was crumpled at the edges from how tightly he gripped it.
His face had changed in the past seven years.
Deep lines had formed near his mouth. His eyes had dark circles under them.
His once proud posture was now stiff and tense. He looked older than he should. Tired. Worried.
When the war first began, he had been full of confidence.
The north was always covered in snow. The cold itself was a weapon.
Enemies would freeze before reaching his walls.
