Crackle.
Beside a large campfire, chairs were arranged with the neatness of a craftsman’s hand. On one of the two chairs sat a middle-aged man, and behind him stood a young man clad in thin leather armor, a middle-aged woman, a man who looked a few years younger than her, and a Frokk.
It was the same Frokk that Enkrid had spared and sent back. When Enkrid acknowledged him with a glance, the Frokk gave a slight nod. The light of the campfire fell upon the middle-aged man in the chair.
He was the king of Azpen. As Enkrid approached, his eyes swept over the king’s entire frame. Though there was some softness to his build, his body bore the traces of training.
Veins bulged on the back of his hands, and his thin shirt revealed well-developed chest muscles. His face did not give off a harsh or difficult impression, but his cheeks were somewhat gaunt, giving him a lean look.
Enkrid thought the king reminded him a little of the first time he had seen Count Molsen—not so much in appearance as in the way both had a physique that had clearly been conditioned over time, though unlike that madman, this king did not look like someone who would do something insane.
Could there be a slightly prickly air about him? Then again, a war maniac did not necessarily have a set look. The king lifted a leather flask and spoke.