Chapter 65: The Poisoned Year
PREVIOUSLY-
Theobald came to a halt before a massive hut, its roof spiked with sun-dried bones and dyed feathers.
It loomed thrice the height of the others, stinking of incense and blood. Carvings of fang-shaped totems decorated the doorway, and two guards lay passed out near a firepit beside it.
"This has to be the chief’s den," he whispered.
He adjusted the strap of his satchel and took one silent step forward, his hand already brushing the lip of the stone axe holstered behind his back.
--X—
"Alright,"
Theobald whispered under his breath, inhaling slow and deep.
"Just stay calm. Think."
The flap of the chieftain’s tent rustled gently behind him as he stepped inside. The scent of smoke, aged leather, and raw iron saturated the air.
The walls were lined with skulls—some polished, others charred—belonging to beasts Theobald couldn’t name. Tribal charms dangled from spears stabbed into the ground. An open fire crackled at the centre, the flames casting dancing shadows across the walls.
And at the far end, seated atop a mound of furs and woven mats, was the chief.