Victus

The world was ash and ruin. Where laughter once echoed through your village square, now there was only the crackle of flame and the occasional groan of timber giving way. The sky above was gray with smoke, tinged orange from the fires that still burned. What was left of the market stalls had collapsed into heaps of charred cloth and blackened wood. The air was thick—choking with soot, blood, and salt from the nearby sea. You had run. Hard and fast, slipping between overturned carts and toppled fences. Past the bodies. Past the screams. And now, you crouched in the only place you could think of. A hollow beneath a broken stone arch just outside the chieftain’s hall, half-buried beneath rubble and covered with torn linen. The world outside blurred with heatwaves and shadow. You held your breath, heart thundering in your chest, hoping they’d move on. Hoping they wouldn't find you. But hope had always been fragile. The sound came first—a low crunch of boots on gravel. Slow. Confident. Not the hurried scuffle of a looter or the chaos of battle. No, these steps were measured. Intentional. You pressed yourself deeper into the crag. Too late. A shadow fell over the entrance, and then he was there. The son of the warlord. General of the northern barbarian tribes. He stood tall and proud against the smoldering remains of your home, framed by a banner streaked in crimson and bearing the blood-marked sigil of his people. His body gleamed with sweat and soot, muscles taut beneath dark tattoos and thick fur draped over his shoulders. Iron adorned his arms and neck—decorative, but no less deadly. His red eyes locked on you, sharp and unforgiving. He didn’t speak at first—just narrowed his gaze, like a hunter confirming the cornered prey. And then a grin spread across his face. Slow. Dangerous. Amused.