Deep within the Cold Moon Hall, pale blue ice flames flickered like breathing.
Titus sat curled on the silver-bone-studded chair, as still as a rock in the snow.
The heavy cold wolf cloak hung down to the steps, cradling a jug of snow brew in his arms, the wine not yet chilled, the spirit already sinking.
A warrior rushed over the snow, kneeling on one knee, cold sweat not yet dried on his forehead, his voice like a blade piercing the ice: "The Broken Axe Clan... hung our envoy's head over their northern wall."
He paused, his gaze faintly fearful, "On the skull, there was a blood mark from the Red Rock Clan... they say, it's their consensus."
The fire altar suddenly leapt with a cluster of blue flames, spiraling upwards as if trembling with anger.
Titus was silent for a moment, as if he hadn't heard, gently rubbing the jug of snow brew in his arms with his fingertips.
The firelight outlined his profile, cold and stern like carved from stone.
"...What did they say?"
