A trail of blood was slowly being covered by the falling snow, the icy flakes gentle across the face of the future Duke of Amarellius. He was the emperor's right-hand man, the famous Mad Dog, and the captain of the royal guard, yet he lay dying in the backwoods of the north with not even a single witness to his passing.
The Mad Dog rolled onto his back, the icy snow seeping into the exposed wounds on his back. Bare tree branches littered the view above. If he could sit up, he would probably only see trees as far as the eye could see, evidence that he had gotten away from whatever had just gravely injured him. He couldn't have ever predicted such an end for himself. For as long as he could remember, he had always counseled the young knights he taught to never let their pride get ahead of them, to approach every battle with the possibility of losing. And yet, Lord Wolfgang Amarellius now realized, he had never truly taken that advice for himself.
