The sun rose over the jagged peaks of the Aldenar mansion with a cruel brilliance. For the rest of the North, it was the penultimate day of the Winter Festival, a day of heavy feasting and final prayers. For Elric , it was the longest, most miserable weeks of his life.
He was currently sitting in the mess hall, staring into a bowl of gray oatmeal as if it contained the secrets of the black magic. He hadn't slept. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw was covered in a rough, neglected stubble, and his aura was so oppressive that the junior knights were currently eating their breakfast in a cramped corner of the kitchen just to stay out of his "strike zone."
"You look like a man who just lost a war, Your Grace. And we haven't even had a border skirmish in months," Rion said, sliding onto the bench opposite him.
