The cold morning air stung Aric's skin as he stepped out of his tent, now fully clad in the gifted steel armor of a Byzeth general.
Frost had gathered on the edges of the pauldrons overnight, clinging like brittle lace. His breath fogged in front of him, thin clouds vanishing into the pale dawn as if even warmth fled this land.
The soldiers were already at work, dismantling the camp with practiced efficiency. The Northrender warriors moved like shadows in the frost-laden dawn, silent but precise, their motions sharp with discipline.
Their furs rustled softly, steel glinting beneath layers of thick hide. Even the way they packed their gear felt alien—ritualistic, each action done with an efficiency born from generations of survival in the merciless north.
Aric's southern-bred eyes, accustomed to stone cities and rolling fields, still found it strange. These people lived as if the earth itself was their enemy.
