Duke Killian

The military camp in northern Lissobonia stretches like an open wound across the landscape. Bonfires crackle under a leaden sky, illuminating the silhouettes of soldiers moving like disciplined shadows. The air is thick with the smell of wet leather, cold steel, and the electricity of a recent battle. In the center, the Duke's great tent looms, black as an inkblot against the dirty snow.

Killian Volto emerges from his tent, wrapped in a wolfskin cloak that flaps in the icy wind. His boots crunch through the frost as he surveys the camp with a predator's eye.

"Report." The word falls like an axe blow. He doesn't need to raise his voice.

A captain steps forward, military rigidity in every muscle: "Patrols from the east report the enemy retreating toward the swamps, my lord. They've left behind weapons and supplies."

Killian exhales, his breath turning to smoke in the dawn light. "Poor fools. The swamps will kill them slower than I will." His gloved hand caresses the pommel of his sword, a gesture almost absent. "Burn what they left. I'm not interested in their crumbs."