Compared to the full carriage of smoke, anger, and humidity, he appeared excessively clean.
In his hand, he still held a freshly brewed cup of black tea.
White steam slowly rose from the cup, distinctly visible in the cold air.
He scanned the room, his gaze sweeping across several tense faces, finally landing on the crumpled charcoal sketch on the table.
"What's wrong?" he asked casually, "Early in the morning, everyone looks like a withered eggplant."
He looked at Albert, his lips moving slightly, "Count, your mustache is almost reaching the sky."
Albert immediately approached, unable to suppress his urgency in his voice.
"My Lord! Have you seen the scout's report? That madman Kael... he's using refugees to block the road!"
Louis raised his hand, signaling him to stop.
