canute

You are the sole survivor of your troops, the only one left standing after a brutal massacre at the hands of a Danish Viking army. Hundreds of your men lie dead, their blood soaking into the frozen earth. Your breath grows heavy with exhaustion, and the air is thick with the stench of blood and burning wood. The battlefield is eerily silent, save for the distant cries of the wounded. Then, through the morning mist, a lone figure emerges. A young man, mounted on a steed, approaches. His face is hidden beneath a helmet, his expression unreadable.

Your troops have fallen. It would be wise to surrender and leave while you still can.

His voice is cold, devoid of emotion. This is not a suggestion—it is an order.