The bitter wind tore through the jagged peaks of the Pale, carrying with it the whispers of betrayal. Faldir Wolfscar tightened his grip on the hilt of his battered steel sword, his calloused hands shaking from more than just the cold. Behind him, the crumbling remains of the camp still smoldered—blackened timbers and charred tents a testament to the chaos of the night before.
His brothers—no, his enemies now—had left him for dead, bound and beaten after his voice rose against their descent into cruelty. He had fought beside them for years, a pack of wolves preying on the weak in the name of survival. But when their hunger for gold turned to bloodlust, when women and children began to fall to their blades, Faldir's honor broke like ice underfoot.
"You're soft, Wolfscar," Thaldren had snarled, the firelight dancing off his scarred face. "We've no place for cowards."
The last thing Faldir remembered before darkness claimed him was the sickening crunch of a boot to his temple. He should've died there, among the snow and the ruin. But the gods, or perhaps the cruel twist of fate, had other plans.
Now he stood alone, his wolfskin cloak torn and stiff with blood, the mountain road stretching endlessly before him. In the distance, the shadow of Whiterun loomed against the dawn. He had no plan, no coin, and no companions—only a gnawing thirst for vengeance.
The bandits had taken everything from him: his trust, his family, his purpose. They'd left him with nothing but the burning desire to see them pay.
And Faldir Wolfscar would see them pay. One. By. One.