Dawn painted the eastern sky in hues of yellow and crimson as Grim stood atop the mountain peak, gazing down at the Celestis Empire. The White Castle at its heart gleamed in the early morning light, its walls and towers were taller and stronger. It had been rebuilt after the devastation of that night.
The night his life had ended.
His eyes drifted to the cairn at his feet. Cassius's sword stood upright at the head of the grave, his white ceremonial robes now weathered and frayed, fluttering from the hilt like a ghost in the mountain breeze.
Grim knelt, his fingers brushing the topmost stone. "Rest well, grandfather," he murmured. "The White Death has earned his peace."
[He was a stubborn old bastard,] the voice in his head commented, a rare note of respect coloring its tone. [Lasted far longer than anyone expected with those injuries.]
"Still not long enough," Grim replied softly.
