Night blanketed the Shattered Axe Heights, and cold wind swept into the camp from a mountain hollow, stirring the ashes of dying fires.
At the center of the camp, the Rageflower Banner snapped atop its tall pole. Its scarlet and black markings resembled the eyes of some savage beast, making people afraid to look straight at it.
Ortan, the barbarian elder, stood on a rise in a heavy horned-hide cloak, looking down over the entire camp.
Another chaotic crowd had gathered at the camp's edge. Blades flashed in the wavering firelight.
Several young men from the Red Rock Tribe were brawling in the middle of the night again.
They punched, kicked, bit, and roared, with no regard for tribal rules, like a pack of wild dogs set ablaze by gunpowder.
There had been countless incidents over the past few months, and nine times out of ten, someone ended up dead. Strangely, no one intervened, as though it were tacitly permitted.
Ortan's heart tightened, but he could not say exactly what was wrong. He was no coward, yet on these nights, he found it increasingly difficult to sleep.
It was not just those around him. That same agitation and brutality seemed to be quietly growing in his own heart.
Lately, he had been quick to anger, often shouting at young warriors. Even the crying of a baby among his relatives could make him grind his teeth in unbearable irritation.
He knew this was not normal, but he could not control it.
These feelings seemed to have begun after Titus launched his war against the Shattered Axe Tribe.
After that battle, across this barbarian land that was gradually falling silent, the old totems had been burned one by one, reduced to muddy ash and buried in the earth.
In their place rose