The Warlord's Tongue

The warriors of Helgabyr had grown thoughtful. Honoured. Grateful.

The Creeping Comfort

But with comfort comes danger.

Jón of Helgabyr saw it—the way they held their blades with ease, not purpose. How they leaned too far back at the table. How their eyes lost the edge that once knew hunger.

He knew what was missing.

Not wrath. Not sorrow.

Discipline.

The kind carved into a man by dust and steel. The kind that builds empires, not from magic—but from will.

The Offering of Command

So he returned to the shrine of Helga Fire-Eye.

He brought a helmet never worn, a page from a lost treaty, and a shard of broken spear carried too far from home.

The fire rose tall—straight, unbending.

And a voice came. Low. Commanding.

"There was once a warlord whose words could burn cities. His name was feared across lands you have never seen. His soul is ash… but his tongue still burns."

The Journey Beyond Maps

Jón journeyed far—beyond snow, beyond desert, beyond the edge of every known map.

He reached the Sea of Steppes, where the ground rolls like waves, and the sky seems too large for men.

There, among wind-shattered rocks, he found a plant growing in the ribs of a shattered banner pole.

The Commanding Fruit

Its fruit was long, blackened at the tip, and humming—like it was still speaking, just below the threshold of hearing.

He plucked one and tasted it.

The fire was not fast. It was direct.

Each breath felt like an order. Each heartbeat like a drumbeat of conquest.

The Return to Order

He dried the fruit on stones still warm from wind, ground it with flint and bone, and brought it back to Helgabyr.

That night's dish was lean—just meat and dust.

The warriors ate.

And sat straighter. Spoke less. Listened more.

They looked to Jón—not for approval, but for command.

For The Warlord's Tongue does not scream or beg. It speaks. And those who taste it… obey.