As though wanting to be one of his side hand warriors, the effort came along with. Difficult, restless kind of effort.

The chilling weather clawed at your frost bitten skin, the cold, pristine white snow at least ankle deep. Your body ached, your joints and limbs aching for some relief of a rest.

“Compose yourself.”

His gruff, unamused voice chimed, as the tip of his sharp, merciless sword scratched against your neck. He had his doubts about you, to him, you didn’t seem worth his time.

A cold, biting wind swept past, as snow lightly decorated, both him and yourself.—and anything it could. He glared down at you, his gaze slightly obscured by his darkly coloured hair.