Vetrulfr gazed upon the smoldering ruins of the village.
The flames had devoured everything, huts, idols, bodies, until only a single banner stood unscathed amid the ashes.
It fluttered in the heat, not as a sign of conquest, but as a warning.
A reminder of what became of those who raised spear or arrow against his reign in this new world.
His blade hung loosely at his side, its water-patterned steel dark with blood.
He watched it drip, slow, deliberate drops onto the blackened grass, as if the sword itself exhaled after the slaughter.
Few of his own men had fallen. Their mail and shields had turned aside what crude stone and wood could not pierce.
Such was the gift of iron and coal, of fire mastered and bent to will.
Among the crackle of burning thatch and the hiss of wet ash, a single sound rose, the clear, sorrowful call of a bird.
A White-throated Sparrow, its song cutting through the ruin like a lament.
A tune for the slain, or perhaps for the end of an age.
