Commander Rance wiped condensation from the spyglass lens. He wiped it again, his thumb dragging across the cold glass. The brass cylinder remained stubbornly fogged.
He lowered the instrument, resting it on the stonesteel parapet, and stared out at the northern expanse. Emberdusk in the Frostmarch meant killing cold. It meant spit freezing before it hit the ground. It meant the metal of the watchtower railing biting through leather gloves, threatening to take skin if touched bare. It meant silence so absolute it made a man's ears ring.
Today, the silence was broken by the sound of dripping water.
Rance removed his right glove. He pressed his bare palm flat against the dark metal of the watchtower railing. The heat was faint, but unmistakable. It felt like the casing of a forge-fire engine after a long cargo run.
"Sergeant," Rance said. His voice sounded thin in the dead, heavy air.
