At the moment Sorza was a man made of more tremors than flesh.
He moved through the encampment like a wounded animal, seething with a rage that was rapidly curdling into a cold, paralyzing terror.
He was scared, gods above if he were.
Squires and men-at-arms scrambled to clear his path, ducking away from him.
Overhead, the noble-ring of the camp was a ghost forest of swaying silk. Tents of pristine white and pavillions painted with the proud heraldry of the Southern Great Houses groaned against the wind.
The sky above was the color of a fresh bruise, a heavy, slate-grey that promised naught but rain before the sun could even think of setting. It was the same grey as the stones of the Bastion, that accursed pile of rock that had broken his spirit and his army in equal measure.
It was cold, eerily so. But it was still but the soft kiss of autumn. When winter was to come it would fuck them hard.
