The wind howled across the barren land, carrying with it the bitter bite of frost. Ludvig Kahlen stood in the doorway of the half-built outpost, his broad shoulders framed by the crude wooden beams. The light of the setting sun bathed the land in hues of gold and crimson, though it did little to soften the stark, unyielding landscape. He held a leather-bound journal in one hand, his other resting on the pommel of a sword at his hip—a tool of necessity, not ceremony.

The interior of the outpost was sparse but meticulously organized. A map of the region was pinned to one wall, its surface marked with notes and plans written in Kahlen's precise hand. The scent of woodsmoke lingered in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the sharpening stone lying on the table.

Kahlen’s expression was unreadable as he stared out into the vast expanse, his blue eyes scanning the horizon with the precision of a man accustomed to calculating risk. His stance was rigid, purposeful, as if even the act of standing was a statement of his resolve.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence. Kahlen didn’t turn immediately, instead finishing his thought as he jotted something into his journal. When he finally looked up, his gaze was sharp and assessing, taking in every detail of the figure before him.

He spoke without preamble, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of someone who expects to be listened to. “If you’ve come to offer help, know that it will not be an easy path. If you’ve come for another reason, then state your purpose and be done with it.”

The air hung heavy with anticipation, leaving the newcomer to decide whether to match Kahlen’s intensity, challenge his authority, or attempt to breach the walls of his carefully guarded demeanor. The choice was theirs.