King Nicholas stared at the Sera Trench below him. It was a cold morning. He had made camp atop Romana's Hill, along with a regiment of five thousand men. The Bishop stood beside him. He had switched his old robes to an ivory one. It stretched beyond his legs and brushed the ground as he walked.
He had brushed his beard too. It flowed with the wind as he observed the misty trench below them. His long sleeves flapped against the wind as well. The old man didn't seem to mind the cold temperature. He closed his eyes and listened to sounds nature produced.
"That mist will cause us difficulties," he told the king in a serene tone.
