He stood on the balcony of a large, Jade tower. His azure helmet, shaped like a bird's head, was tucked under his left arm. In his right hand, he held his sword, drawn from its scabbard. His overgrown blonde fringe blew in the strong wind, becoming messy in the process. The mahogany cape he wore fluttered furiously behind him, threatening to break free. He scanned the wide, dead plains of the keep, his mind lost to thought of recent events.
"My lord, the first of the divisions have arrived," a man told him from behind. The man was his senior, by at least a couple of decades. His uniform, adorned with the marking of the king, displayed his arrogance perfectly in tandem with the smug expression of superiority he wore on his face.
"Which one?"
"The Keep of Treiven, my lord."
"And we're sure the three Lords are with us?"
"Yes, my lord. They, much like us, were hurt by the sudden attack."
"Any word from my Talons?"
"No, my lord," the man responded after a brief pause. "But there is no need to worry, they're tough. They won't leave us exposed."
"I know that."
"In... better news, it seems our story has been bought by the foreigners."
"Good. The less they know, the better."
"Do you have any orders for the soldiers, my lord?"
"No, not right now."
"May I remind you of the mounta-"
"I am aware of the mountains. We will hold them, much like we will hold the mines, and the cities, and the towns, and every other inch of MY TERRITORY that these heretical bastards have taken from me." The man closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Have my honour brothers ready themselves."
"Very well, my lord."