"Free," he whispered, though he wasn't sure if he meant the cost of his journey or the way he felt on the open plains.

His first recruit was a drunken farmer named Rolf, who claimed to be a noble. Together, they chased down a group of looters near Praven. Alaric didn't fight with grace; he fought with the desperation of a man trying to rewrite his own code. He swung his blade, and for a moment, the world slowed. The physics of the strike felt real—the weight of the steel, the thud against leather armor.

He gripped his sword hilt and smiled. The conquest had just begun.