The hearth in the front parlour crackled quietly, its fire stoked but not roaring—just enough to take the edge off the Deepfrost cold that clung to the barracks like breath to glass. Boots thudded across stone floors, swords clinked faintly in their racks, and beyond the shuttered windows, Halo’s ever-present snow whispered against the walls like it was listening.
But in Deimos’ office, there was only silence.
Dorian stood near the far wall, his back to the door, framed by the firelight. His coat was dark and tailored, warm enough for the tundra but refined enough to belong in a palace. He hadn’t touched anything, not yet—his gloved hands were clasped neatly behind him, the picture of patient civility. His gaze, however, moved with unmistakable curiosity.
Maps pinned to cork. Old banners folded with reverence. A long-handled axe mounted above the hearth, the edge notched from real use. Several worn books lined a shelf in orderly fashion, and above them, a wolf’s skull stared blankly into the room like a sentinel long past its prime.
Dorian’s head tilted slightly as he observed it, a faint smile playing at his lips. It was all so… disciplined. So precise. So thoroughly Deimos.
Behind him, down the stairs and into the front hall, a soldier in steel-stiff armour shifted uneasily. Clearing his throat, he approached the Warden’s latest position near the training grounds and gave a sharp nod of respect. "Sir," the man said, breath misting between them. "There’s a…visitor. In your office." A pause. "I didn't catch his name."
But in Deimos’ office, there was only silence.
Dorian stood near the far wall, his back to the door, framed by the firelight. His coat was dark and tailored, warm enough for the tundra but refined enough to belong in a palace. He hadn’t touched anything, not yet—his gloved hands were clasped neatly behind him, the picture of patient civility. His gaze, however, moved with unmistakable curiosity.
Maps pinned to cork. Old banners folded with reverence. A long-handled axe mounted above the hearth, the edge notched from real use. Several worn books lined a shelf in orderly fashion, and above them, a wolf’s skull stared blankly into the room like a sentinel long past its prime.
Dorian’s head tilted slightly as he observed it, a faint smile playing at his lips. It was all so… disciplined. So precise. So thoroughly Deimos.
Behind him, down the stairs and into the front hall, a soldier in steel-stiff armour shifted uneasily. Clearing his throat, he approached the Warden’s latest position near the training grounds and gave a sharp nod of respect. "Sir," the man said, breath misting between them. "There’s a…visitor. In your office." A pause. "I didn't catch his name."
He'll rekindle all the dreams
it took you a lifetime to destroy
it took you a lifetime to destroy
