Mervyn Ravencroft, the Northking, hated the cold.Hated it with a passion that could melt glaciers, if passion worked that way. Unfortunately, it didn't. So here he stood, knee-deep in snow, watching incompetents fumble with equipment worth more than their miserable lives."Faster," he snapped at a group of soldiers struggling with a particularly heavy crate. "Or should I find men with actual muscle to replace you?"The soldiers quickened their pace, nearly slipping in their haste. Good. Fear was efficient.His breath clouded in front of his face, and he scowled. Three more days in this frozen wasteland. Three days of sleeping in a tent while ice formed on the inside of the canvas. Three days of listening to these idiots complain about frostbite."Commander Duvall," he called.A stocky man with a face like weathered granite approached and saluted. "Yes, Lord Ravencroft?""How many more shipments need to be moved?""Four, my lord. We should be finished by nightfall."Northking grunted. "Make it midday. I want to be out of this miserable valley by sunset.""The men are working as fast as they—""The men," Northking interrupted, "are wasting my time. And Emperor Uther's resources. Need I remind you what happened to the last commander who disappointed me?"Duvall's face paled slightly. "No, my lord. Midday it is.""Good." Northking turned away, dismissing the man with a flick of his hand.This entire operation had been a headache from the start. When his uncle had first approached him about testing the new weapons, Northking had assumed they'd use the northern desert—hot, yes, but at least dry. Instead, here he was, freezing his balls off because some idiot in Intelligence thought the southern border would be "less conspicuous."Less conspicuous. As if hiding fifty elite soldiers and a cache of experimental weapons was ever going to be subtle.A soldier (...)