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-third person
"Gods… how is it possible they killed them all in a single night?" said the chieftain of the wild tribes, stunned, his eyes still locked on the slaughter stretched out before him. The only thing that broke the vast monotony of mutilated corpses was the smoke of the Finnish bonfires, burning with purpose. The air reeked of blood, iron, and charred flesh. And in the silence left behind by battle, only the groans of the wounded and the prayers of those who still believed in something remained.
"Vittu, vittu, vittu… huora… vittu…" muttered a stocky Finn through clenched teeth, wrapping a blood-stained bandage around his left forearm. The bite still oozed blood. The last of the cannibals had taken a chunk out of his muscle before dying with an axe lodged in his skull.
"Bah, quit whining. One small bite in exchange for thousands of those monsters. Good price for a victory like this," said Tormund, standing atop a mound of bodies, leaning on his axe like a walking stick.
"Shut up, barbarian…" the Finn growled, tightening the bandages until the bleeding stopped, his fingers stiff from pain and cold. Despite the fire, the night was still bitterly cold. Even death seemed frozen in the glassy eyes of the dead.
A few steps away, a Teutonic knight stood in prayer—imposing in his armor, worn from poor maintenance and adorned with bear fur. His voice was firm, as if his tongue carried the weight of centuries, even while speaking in the language of the Free Folk.
"With this, the cannibal threat that plagued your lands appears extinguished. But their bodies must be cleansed by fire. If the dawn creeping over us brings with it the resurrection of the dead—as the rumors claim, of witches and specters raising soulless bodies—then we cannot allow such carrion to be used by the heretic or the pagan to harm the flock of the Almighty."
The chieftain nodded slowly. Thousands of cannibals had fallen the night before, and leaving them behind to become numbers for the Great Enemy would have been foolish.
"Burn them all," the Teutonic knight murmured. "Men, women… even the children. Leave no flesh for the false gods. Let them pay for their vile lives with no grave, no sacred ground—only fire, so they may burn eternally in Hell."
He made the sign of the cross with the hilt of his sword across his chest.
"Let fire cleanse what the sword leaves behind—and with God as our witness, another victory in His name," the knight continued.
Tormund began to walk among the blackened corpses, his expression hardened by something he didn't want to say aloud. He looked at the bodies with growing unease. All the fallen cannibals bore the same wounds: clean cuts across the throat, a single stab to the heart, or a precise incision at the base of the spine. No limbs half-severed, no wild tearing. No signs of tribal rage or savage brutality. Only quick, silent death.
His steps brought him to the body of a child—no more than eleven winters old. His throat was cut, his eyes still staring into some distant corner of the sky. Tormund frowned.
More uneasy than usual, he took a deep breath. He couldn't help but feel a flicker of pride. It had been his own ambition to unite the Free Folk under a single banner that had driven the cannibals to the edge of desperation. With no access to easy prey—no isolated tribes, no poorly defended southern settlers—the flesh-eaters had been forced to organize. Out of necessity or by strength, one of their warlords must have unified them… and in a single night, they had been wiped out. Perhaps a few scattered minor tribes still remained in the region, but they were no longer a threat.
In the months leading up to the massacre, while the snow still blanketed everything as it always did, Tormund had secretly negotiated with an envoy of the King of Prussia. The deal was simple on paper—but monstrous to the proud Free Folk: loyalty in exchange for survival.
Many among his people spat his name, called him a traitor, a sellout. But every tribe that remained independent was stalked by the cannibal presence. Every village knew that they were growing bolder, and that it was no time for pride—they had to head south, fast.
Tormund, reluctantly, had bent the knee. And then, his world changed.
For the first time, the sound of horseshoes rang across the frozen tundra. Warhorses—huge beasts, capable of carrying a fully armored Teutonic knight—began to arrive from the south. Swords forged of Prussian steel, polished and sharpened by the finest German smiths, replaced blades of bone and stone. Blankets, helmets, chainmail, gauntlets, crossbows. The Old Gods watched as their children dressed in foreign steel.
The Teutonic knights quickly took command of training. They became field officers among Tormund's warriors, establishing discipline where there had once only been tribal fury. Their whips were as straight as their principles, and their faith burned hotter than any fire.
Alongside them came the Finns—cunning, cold, calculating. The scouts and assassins of the King in Prussia. Masters of diplomacy and intelligence. They were the ones who spoke in low voices with shamans and leaders, who spread rumors and brokered truces. Their native tongue was incomprehensible to most, but they spoke the local language fluently, making them a bridge—a tribe unto themselves. And it wasn't long before more and more tribes began to march under Tormund's banner, now decorated with a Prussian eagle embroidered in one corner.
Guided by Prussian strategists, Tormund wasted no time in crushing the tribes that had risen against him for kneeling. Those who had accused him of betraying the pride of the Free Folk in exchange for steel and supplies quickly learned their words meant little against foreign discipline
The first campaigns were brutal. With a handful of Teutonic knights breaking the enemy line and five hundred Finnish riders slicing through the snow like blades, every battle in open field became a well-organized massacre. Tormund's vanguard, equipped with steel shields, Prussian pikes, and formations unimaginable to any northern savage, held the line like a wall. Meanwhile, the southern cavalry crashed into the enemy flanks with fury, scattering their ranks. In a matter of weeks, several hostile tribes were defeated, scattered, or absorbed.
And then, the more subtle work began.
The Finns always tried to move ahead of the fighting when they could—and instead of drawing weapons, they unfurled maps, letters, treaties. They knew exactly who to talk to, what words to use, and which fears to exploit. To religious leaders, they spoke of continuity. To political ones, of opportunity. To the elders, of survival. They promised protection, plunder, and routes to the South.
Thanks to that meticulous work, many tribes began to join without a single drop of blood being spilled. Some did it out of calculation, others out of convenience, and many simply because they knew—either they joined, or they would be swept away by this host of steel that grew with every passing moon. The Finns, often accompanied by an impeccably dressed Prussian diplomat with a sharpened tongue, secured agreements long before any swords were drawn.
Even so, no one was fooled. No matter how official the seals, how solemn the envoys, or how pleasant the promises sounded, everything signed on paper still depended on the strength behind it. It was that strength—disciplined, silent, prepared—that upheld the newly imposed order. Words were useful. But they meant nothing without the shadow of blades behind them.
It didn't take long for Tormund to achieve the unthinkable: unifying most of the Free Folk under his command. What had begun as a survival alliance soon became the largest army ever assembled beyond the Wall. With each victory, each surrendered or convinced tribe, his host grew—fed by weapons, horses, and discipline pouring in from the South. But that expansion also triggered the inevitable conflict.
The cannibals.
Degenerate tribes, twisted by starvation and endless winters, who lived off human flesh and whose name alone could silence an entire camp. They too unified—but not through diplomacy or promises, only through blood. They fought among themselves until only the strongest, the most vicious, remained. And then, they marched.
But their numbers could not compare to Tormund's. Even less so their equipment. Armed with sharpened bones, rusted bronze, or simple rocks tied to sticks, they were no match for a vanguard forged in Prussian steel, trained by southern veterans and guided by tactics no northern tribe had ever seen.
Still, a direct battle would have been a pointless loss of men. Tormund knew that. And so did his southern allies.
Winter—what normally halted any campaign—didn't stop the operatives of the King in Prussia.
While blizzards battered the frozen plains and the wind howled through the cliffs, the cannibals huddled in their leather-and-bone tents, chewing on some poor wretch they'd captured days before. They trusted that the cold and darkness would keep enemies at bay.
That night, there was no charge. No war horns. No screaming.
Only hooded figures moving through the snowstorm, invisible even from a few meters away. No one heard the crunch of snow beneath their boots, nor the whisper of drawn blades.
The Finns entered like shadows, long knives in hand. They left no warnings, no witnesses. One by one, tent by tent, they slit the throats of sentries and stabbed the sleeping. The snow muffled the groans, swallowed the blood, and covered the bodies. At dawn, the wind still blew and the camp remained quiet—but not because they slept.
Because none were left alive.
The Cannibal Massacre spread quickly. In the desolate North, where words traveled slow but were never forgotten, news crossed valleys, cliffs, and tundra faster than any envoy. The few tribes still hesitant needed no further signs: either they joined Tormund, or they would share the fate of the flesh-eaters.
The Finns made sure no tribe of significant size remained outside their chieftain's control. Only when unification was complete—not through faith, but through control—was the signal sent to the South. The King in Prussia had fulfilled his promise. It was time to uphold the other half of the bargain.
Despite the winter—vicious enough to belong in the old tales—the march began. Day after day, wrapped in furs and steel, Tormund's great host descended through frozen valleys toward the sea. The blizzards punished them, roads iced over beneath their feet, but the column kept advancing. This was not just an army. It was an entire people on the move.
When they finally reached the coast, the Wall still loomed in the distance—a white line splitting the world in two. Some believed the gates would open for them, that the southern king would grant them passage through ancient fortresses and hidden tunnels. But that didn't happen.
Instead, dozens of Prussian ships awaited them—anchored among the icebergs, covered in frost, ready to sail.
Tormund, having fulfilled his part, gave the order without hesitation. His people began boarding.
Almost all of them were sent to Skagos.
The island—harsh, mountainous—now served as a containment and staging point. A large Finnish garrison, deployed weeks in advance, had prepared the terrain: palisades, barracks, food depots, isolation zones. The site was ready to receive tens of thousands of men, women, and children. Not as guests—but as subjects under observation.
Only a small Finnish detachment remained behind, north of the Wall. Their mission was simple and brutal: continue hunting stragglers, burn any unregistered settlements, and ensure no tribe remained behind. They were the last trackers—and would not return until the order for full withdrawal was given.
Over the following days, the logistical nightmare of relocating so many proved immense. The frozen sea slowed landings, animals died from cold or starvation, and tensions began to surface within the tribes themselves. But in the end, everything reached its destination.
With the bulk of the people now settled in Skagos, it was time to finalize the deal.
Tormund was summoned to a formal meeting with the Prussian representative. No escort was necessary. The original tribe that had followed him from the very beginning—his trusted warriors, closest kin, the veterans of the early campaigns—was the only group permitted to continue the journey south. As stipulated in the treaty, that was the reward for early loyalty and for leading the unification of the North.
The rest were left behind.
Thousands of people, confined to Skagos under constant Finnish watch. They weren't treated as enemies, but neither as citizens. They were, essentially, prisoners under surveillance. A captive people awaiting redemption.
Only when they proved obedience, discipline, and concrete usefulness to the new order would relocation to the south be considered. Until then, they would work. They would farm. They would learn.
And they would be watched.