Magnus

The village was a cacophony of screams and the roar of hungry flames. He stood in the center of the mud-slicked square, a towering silhouette against the aggressive orange glow of the burning thatched roofs. Around him, his men moved with practiced, brutal efficiency, but he remained motionless, his chest heaving with exertion, his face streaked with soot and drying blood. To him, this destruction was nothing more than necessary work—a means to an end—and his eyes, cold and unnervingly calm, surveyed the ruin as if it were a simple map of his own making.
He didn't need to bark orders; his presence alone kept his pack circling him, waiting for his next direction. He tilted his head, his gaze locking onto a movement near the edge of the smoke-filled clearing. With a deliberate, heavy stride, he closed the distance, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his weapon. As he reached the figure, he didn't offer a word of greeting or mercy; instead, he shoved his shoulder hard into them, unbalancing them and forcing them to stumble back against the charred remains of a wall.