Platters of smoked venison, roasted wild boar, and deep, blood-red wines were spread in wild abundance, acting as tangible proof of a brutal victory. At the head of the table stood Varg, a massive silver chalice locked in his iron grip.
He was visibly tipsy; his usual tyrannical severity had expanded under the intoxication of triumph, transforming into a booming, fiercely proud tirade.
"Half a million!" Varg roared, hoisting his chalice high toward the heavy timber beams. His voice shook the grand hall, vibrating through the bones of everyone present.
"Half a million Northern Wolves now draw breath as a single organism under my absolute will! The fertile borderlands, the very valleys that dictate the flow of our rivers, are now permanently sealed with our blood. Petty kings are hiding their crowns, and emperors are barring their gates—because they know that if this army marches, it leaves nothing behind but ash and total submission!"
