The reactions of the other nobles were even more unbearable, with more than a dozen minor nobles nearly fainting in fright, their faces more ghastly than corpses.
In the midst of this shudder, Louis gently set down his teacup.
The wind and snow seemed to pause for a moment.
He spoke calmly, as if chatting about the weather, "It must be over."
The moment his voice fell, everyone understood he was not talking about the end of a battle, but the end of an era.
Tap, tap, tap...
In this deathly silence, a series of steady footsteps came from below the stone steps.
Lambert appeared.
He slowly stepped onto the city wall, his red cloak stained with blood, his armor covered with a thin frost. His face, however, was as calm as if he had just returned from morning training, showing no sign of having been through a hellish scene.
In his left hand, he held something, drip by drip, with droplets of blood trickling down his iron glove, forming a string of dotted blood scabs on the ground.
