Soft- - Age Of Barbarians Chronicles -v0.8.0- -crian

“This is not a throne,” Kaelen said, his voice a low rasp that cut through the drizzle. “It is a grave we have just dug. And the worms are already coming.”

Kaelen stood atop the broken gate of Thornwall, his bare chest slick with a patina of dried blood—some his, most not. The wind carried the smell of smoldering thatch and iron. Below, the chieftains of a dozen scattered tribes looked up at him, their wolf-cloaks heavy with the night’s rain. They did not cheer. They waited. In the Age of Barbarians, a victory was only real if the victor could speak the next sunrise into being.

“What is that?” he whispered.

Kaelen picked up a fallen sword. It felt heavier now. The world felt thicker .