It was on a chilly morning, nine months into these changes, that the border guards spotted movement in the distance.
The sound of hooves and the clatter of armor echoed through the snow-laden valley, announcing the return of Count Vinlig and his weary men.
Leading the group was the Count himself, a towering figure clad in his familiar silver armor.
Though once pristine, it was now tarnished and smeared with dried blood—not his own, but that of the monsters they had faced during their grueling campaign.
Beside him rode Viscount Crimwell, who appeared far worse for wear.
His armor was chipped and dented, barely held together with makeshift repairs, and his once-fine cloak hung in tattered shreds.
Dust caked his face and hands, and his eyes had the hollow, exhausted look of a man who had been at war for far too long.
