He walked to the walls of the old fortress and stared out to the vast white frozen horizon. It was cold to breath, but that didn't bother him as he inhaled the frigid air. All was fine.
The town was asleep. He had made them lazy; given the people too much.
A good leader was the one who took care of the people; it happens that he now had unlimited resources and the people who followed him just happened to be lucky. Indeed he was generous, but it made it easier to govern too. They kept it all, for all he needed was back at his room, naked under silk sheets and bear pelts. She waited for him, but he needed to deal with business first.
"There, sir," the old man said, his voice hardened by age and habits.
He looked at the live feed on the device on his hand, telescoped by the satellite he had won on a gamble.
"These look like Governmental ships," he said and shuffled the heavy coat to fit in.
"She has been here for too long, sir," the old man added.
"Not even that long," he muttered. "Take them to the Hall when they arrive. Treat them right, but make them wait," he said and left.
He was Art, the slayer of aliens, conqueror of Eastborough, the lord of the Frozen North East, and the forgotten lands.
Art strolled through the empty streets warm under his soles, which was one of his first upgrades to the decaying town. Before the snow melting...