The second-in-command of the northern house, Gordon Sarakhel, paused before the large door. Even now, he was still wearing several thick sweaters, not daring to take them off. His face was drenched with sweat. Still, he stood there, staring at the door with slightly trembling fists and hesitant eyes.
After a moment of steeling his resolve, he carefully knocked before pushing the door open and stepping inside.
He was met by a serene, almost peaceful atmosphere. Yet somehow, it felt suffocating. And it was all because of a single presence in the room.
Malach Sanct Sarakhel sat at a table, his attention fixed on a game of Wargrid. No opponent sat across from him, yet he seemed completely engrossed despite playing by himself.
Several hours had already passed since Jogo and the others had been captured by the southerners, yet this was all he had done. Gordon, however, dared not disturb him.
Malach, despite essentially being a madman, was, in fact, of the primary line.
