The wind sweeping down from the high northern crags didn't just carry snow; it carried microscopic shards of ice that bit into exposed skin like ground glass. Torven stood on the elevated command ridge, his heavy fur cloak snapping violently around his armored shoulders.
At seventy-four, he was the oldest serving general in the Dominion's history. His face was a map of old scars and deep weathering, his left eye milky white from a close encounter with a frost-wyrm two decades ago. But his right eye remained sharp, fixed on the sprawling, chaotic violence of the Frostmarch valley below.
For three years, the northern front had been a meat grinder. Vaelthyr the Pale had thrown endless waves of frost-thralls and specialized raiders against the Dominion's defensive lines, trying to crack the industrial heartland before the war in the south could be resolved. And for three years, Torven had held them back, trading ground for time, paying in blood for every mile of frozen earth.
