He looked up.
At the sky. At the meteors. At the magic circles. At the—
The man.
Hovering. In the air. Above the fleet. Above the carnage. Above the screaming, burning, sinking ships.
His hair was black. His eyes were violet. His coat was dark. Open. His hands were in his pockets.
He was looking down.
At the fleet. At the three hundred ships. At the sixty thousand men. At the carnage. At the ice spears and the meteors and the magic circles. His face was calm. His expression was the expression of a man who is watching rain fall on a garden.
General Aldricus stared.
His mouth was open. His spyglass had fallen from his hand. His sword — the sword of forty years, the sword that had won twelve battles — was at his hip. He did not draw it.
"Who..." he whispered. "Who is that...?"
The barrage continued.
