Two weeks had passed since the confrontation in the hutt. Geowulf stood by the narrow window of his chamber, looking out over the city he had conquered and now ruled. The streets bustled with life, though quieter than before his arrival. The people of Sarlan had quickly adapted to their new overlords, their shoulders hunched and gazes averted whenever one of Geowulf's warriors strode past.
He rested his hand on the cold stone of the windowsill, his calloused fingers tracing the rough edges. He would be lying if he claimed not to feel anxious. The weight of what he had wrought bore heavily upon him. There was no precedent for what he sought to achieve. Never in the history of the tribes had rulership passed through blood. The traditions of their people were unyielding—leadership was earned, not inherited.
