The year was 1257, and the air in Calradia smelled of horse sweat and rusted iron.
"Free," he whispered, though he wasn't sure if he meant the cost of his journey or the way he felt on the open plains. The year was 1257, and the air in
By sunset, he had five denars and a bag of moldy bread. It was a start. It was a start
As the campfire flickered, Alaric looked at the map. To the north, the Nords were sharpening their axes. To the south, the Swadian knights were preparing a feast they wouldn't live to finish. The world was a chaotic sandbox of shifting borders and broken loyalties, and Alaric realized that in v1.174, the only thing truly "free" was the right to die for a cause—or live long enough to see your own banner fly over the walls of Suno. To the south, the Swadian knights were preparing