Somewhere in the lands of Pentaline empire.
The small town burned under the gray afternoon sky. Smoke curled above rooftops as flames devoured wooden homes, and the air was thick with the stench of ash and blood.
Bodies lay scattered across the muddy streets, men, women, and even children who had tried to run. Cries of pain and terror echoed through the air, mixing with the laughter of the Viking raiders as they pillaged everything in sight.
"Take the young ones! The rest, kill them!" a bearded Viking shouted, swinging his axe at a fleeing villager.
Several others cheered as they tore through homes, dragging out survivors, their laughter cruel and wild.
Amid the chaos, a lone figure walked down the dirt road. His cloak was dark and tattered from travel. A small bag hung by his side, and the faint glint of metal beneath the cloak showed a glimpse of armor, and a sheathed sword.
