Marius gazed upon the face of the young Krovic king he never had the opportunity to meet. He was lain across his prepared beds, dressed in the trappings of proud Winterland king. Finely crafted leather, impeccably tailored and dyed linens, and, of course, thick and well-maintained furs. Tsar Nikolai's, in particular, was the same as every other Kazbirati's – or so Marius had read: the massive and brilliantly white coat of an ice tiger.
"Why," Marius began softly, as if a loud tone would be enough to wake the dead. "Is he without footwear?"
