Sixty miles north of the Imperial Capital, there lies an abandoned mill.
The night was pressing down heavily, with wind blowing in from the edge of the wasteland, carrying the scent of broken snow and dry grass, stinging the face.
The wooden wings of the mill had long since broken, leaving only a shadow-like axle, swaying slightly in the wind.
When Varius was brought here by that mysterious figure, the first thing he saw was a group of carriages.
They were scattered around the mill, their tracks crisscrossing on the permafrost, looking like a temporary assembly point.
Varius dismounted, stood still, and observed the silhouettes around him in the flickering light of scattered torches.
Maintaining order was a team of knights who looked like mercenaries. They wore mismatched armor, cloaks of varied colors, and their weapons were from different origins.
But Varius could see that it was just a disguise.
