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Sven was fast asleep in an old wooden house. His face was serene and at peace.
Twitch.
It was a light sleep. Sven was walking on the border between dream and reality as his wrinkles twitched intermittently.
'Blood and iron.'
Like most northerners, Sven had lived his entire life as a warrior. He took what he needed by force and killed to survive. There was no need for guilt, as that was the way of life in the north. Whenever he returned to his village after killing and plundering, he was hailed as a true warrior by the villagers.
But did no one ever really feel guilty? Was there no one who questioned the life of repeated plunder and slaughter? Did no one desire peace and coexistence? Was there no warrior who, upon seeing a woman wailing with her child, remembered his own mother and wife? Were all northerners heartless murderers with no mercy or empathy for another?
The old man reflected on his past. Many northerners had converted to Solarism, drawn to its benevolence, likely tired of Ulgaro's teachings. Tired of a life that only involved fighting in life and even in...
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