Whispers of the Strangers

The air hung heavy with the stench of death and decay, a familiar perfume to Borgen. He moved through the ravaged landscape like a shadow, his colossal frame a stark contrast to the broken bodies and splintered wood littering the battlefield. This was the Crimson Blades' handiwork, a brutal, efficient slaughter that left him with a knot in his gut. He wasn't here for the spoils of war, not in the way the others were. He was hunting echoes, fragments of a past he barely remembered, a past that bled into the present with every breath he took.

Captain Valerius had been gruff, his eyes like chips of flint, when he’d agreed to let Borgen tag along. “Don’t get in the way, boy,” he’d warned, his voice a gravelly rasp. “And no… *that*.” He’d gestured vaguely at Borgen’s imposing bulk, a silent acknowledgment of the fear he inspired. Borgen had simply nodded, his massive hands clenched at his sides. Getting in the way was the last thing he wanted. He wanted to see, to learn, to find anything that spoke of the Strangers.

The Crimson Blades were a well-oiled machine of destruction. They moved with a practiced ease, their armor bearing the scars of a hundred battles, their faces grim and determined. Lyra, the scout, was a blur of motion, her keen eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of lingering threats. She was the only one who didn’t flinch when Borgen drew near, her gaze holding a flicker of curiosity rather than outright fear. She’d even offered him a small, almost shy smile once, a gesture that had warmed him more than any campfire.