Lord Altard's heart stopped. The Lord's body jerked forward. The heat in his body plummeted. The sticky wall that loomed over him encased him in fear. Altard turned away from it. He took deep breaths, hollow and loud in the silence of the alley. The dim sun rays barely left its lingering touch of light. The lord's feet clipped lightly against the muted cobble stone. Pain gripped his arm tightly. Squinting, Altard lifted his arm, blood trickled down from many jagged wounds.

He dropped his arms. His feet throbbed loudly from the many abrasions formed from walking barefooted for so long. In one of the deepest alleyways of Ashport, he felt fear encase him. The alley stretched down, cutting into different equally narrow paths. Altard casted a glance at the heap of charred substances that lay off to the side, assaulting his nose with the scent of ashes.

The chilly air and the humidity told him of the arrival of winter. He consoled himself, at this point most disgusting peasants would be too busy hoarding food for themselves to try to look for a noble. The tension in his body seeped away.

Altard ran a hand through his matted locks, his signet ring catching onto a ray of light. The lord's tattered tunic gave him no coverage against the chilly weather, but the cold felt better than where he last came from. He shuddered, waving off the goosebumps that trailed up his bruised arms. His guards would be almost here, waiting in hope that they could decode those letters. He beat himself up once again, wishing he hadn't taken a liking to the rebellers situation.

The Lord tilted his head back a bit, pushing...