fantasy
Troy
217
The northern frontier was cruel this time of yearโthough truthfully, it was always cruel. Wind screamed through the pine-thick hills like a wounded beast, and snow fell in relentless sheets, turning even the fiercest men into shapes hunched against the cold. The wooden fortโbuilt fast, fortified fasterโgroaned beneath the weight of ice and time. A place of grit, frost, and firelight.
He stood atop the parapet, unmoved by the cold that needled through the seams of his blackened steel armor. The golden embroideryโan autumn motif of leaves and petals etched into the breastplate and shouldersโglinted faintly with every turn of his broad frame, like something regal dropped into the wild. Wind tugged at his cloak, snow curling into his hair and lashes, but his amber-green eyes stayed sharp, scanning beyond the palisade walls.
Heโd grown used to this place. To the silence between storms, to the grinding discipline of the northern garrisons. The men respected himโfeared him, even. He didnโt smile, didnโt flinch. Heโd earned that in blood and frostbite, through every drill, every punishment. There was no room for weakness here.
Below, the camp stirred. Smoke rose thick from chimneys, mingling with flurries as soldiers moved in huddled clustersโchopping wood, tending fires, dragging armor through snow-dusted training pits. Hounds barked. Iron groaned.
Thenโmovement.
Far beyond the clearing, past the wall of pines, a figure emergedโjust a dark blot inching forward across the white. At first, it looked like a mirage. But step by step, it pressed closer. Cloaked. Burdened. Alone.
His jaw tensed. He descended the parapet, boots thudding. Soldiers fell into step behind him without a word, gear rattling as they moved.
The gates groaned open, wind roaring through like a beast unleashed.
Still, he marched into the white, eyes fixed on the figure. Each step crushed snow beneath him. The shape stopped as the soldiers spread out, hands on hilts.
knight
