Chapter 67: The Price of Death
PREVIOUSLY-
Gorvax watched the scene unfold with a gleam in his ghostly eyes. "Boy," he whispered to himself, licking phantom lips. "Those ones are delicious roasted."
Theobald rolled the cart forward, grinning like a cat with a key to the pantry.
"As you say, Master."
Then he whistled — a quick, sharp note.
Overhead, Rook shifted. The orange vulture, perched atop the command tent, dipped his head and unfurled his wings.
A blur of feathers, and he vanished toward the lizardmen’s village.
The operation had begun.
--X—
Back at the lizardmen tribe, twilight cast long, wavering shadows across the marsh. Theobald trudged through the soft soil, a heavy burlap sack slung over his shoulder. Glass clinked and metal jostled within — the echoes of an outpost’s sins.
He halted before the chieftain’s hut, heart hammering in his chest. For a moment, he clenched his fists, knuckles whitening as his jaw tightened.
"Chief!" he called, voice steadier than his nerves.