Geowulf , the Great Knotur of the tribes behind the North's bane, stormed through the stone halls of the Royal Palace of Sarlan, his boots striking the floor with force, the sound echoing through the cold, empty corridors. His jaw clenched tight, his teeth grinding together in frustration as his thoughts churned with bitter anger. How could they raise these issues against him after everything he had done?
He had led them from the brink of death, from the frigid white plains where starvation and frost had claimed so many of their kin. He had fought, bled, and sacrificed, carving a path southward, defying fate itself. Where countless Knoturs had failed, forced to bow their heads and knees to the southerners for scraps, he had succeeded. Geowulf, and no one else, had moved their people to fertile lands, warm and rich, where their bellies could be filled each day and night, their ancestors head's now bowing to what they had achieved.
