Veigard's memory – a lifetime ago, yet as vivid as the crimson that had once stained his small, shaking hands…

The air was acrid, a suffocating miasma of woodsmoke, charred flesh, and the coppery, metallic tang of spilled blood. It clawed at his throat, burned his eyes, but young Veigard barely noticed. He was numb, frozen in place, not by the biting wind, but by a terror so profound that it had stolen his breath, his voice, his very ability to move. The screams… he could still hear them.

He was a boy then, no older than seven winters, small and helpless, cowering in the meager shadow of an overturned wagon, its wooden frame splintering. A surprise attack, swift and brutal, had left the Rubak camp a scene of utter devastation.

Fire, everywhere fire, consuming the tents, the possessions, the lives of his people. He saw his mother, her face once vibrant, now contorted in a silent scream, her body riddled with Drakonian arrows. Her lifeblood stained the frozen ground a sickening crimson. He saw his father, Ragbul, leader of the White Grizzly Bear tribe, a once-proud warrior, lying broken amidst the flames, his greatsword shattered. Ragbul's eyes, which once held such pride, now stared blankly at the smoke-filled sky. The warmth of their blood on his skin was a sticky, horrifying reminder.

Around him, Drakonian soldiers moved with terrifying efficiency, like figures in a nightmare. Their faces, illuminated by flames, twisted with hatred and cold triumph. No mercy was shown, as they slaughtered men, women, and children alike. Swords, spears, and axes rose and fell with a sickening rhythm. A young boy was cut down as he fled; a woman, belly swollen with child, begged in vain for mercy. It was a massacre, a brutal lesson etched in fire and blood.

He remembered the cold. Not just the physical cold of the Eastern Wastes, but a deeper chill seeping into his soul. It froze his tears, hardened his heart, forging a core of implacable hatred. He was Veigard, son of Ragbul, and he would never forget.

Then, a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder, yanking him back from the brink of despair. He looked up, his vision blurred by smoke and tears, and saw his uncle, Borak. Borak was not a chieftain, not a renowned warrior, but he was strong, fiercely loyal, and, in that moment, Veigard's only hope.

"Run, boy!" Borak roared, his voice hoarse, his face streaked with soot and blood. "Run and live! Live to remember! Live to avenge!"

He shoved Veigard towards the edge of the camp, away from the carnage, towards the relative safety of the open plains. Veigard stumbled, his small legs pumping furiously, his lungs burning. He looked back, just once, and saw Borak turn to face the oncoming Drakonian soldiers, a broken spear clutched in his hand, a defiant roar tearing from his throat. He was buying Veigard time, sacrificing himself to give his nephew a chance to escape.

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That image – Borak's courageous, hopeless stand – would forever be seared into Veigard's memory, a constant reminder of the debt he owed, the vengeance he would one day exact.

The memory faded, replaced by the harsh reality of the present. Veigard, Chieftain of the Frozen Wind, stood on a windswept rise. His gaze was fixed on the distant Volgunder outpost. Demonic energy coursed through him.

No longer that helpless boy, he was a warrior, a leader. Nearly two meters tall, his body was a mountain of muscle. Scars and weathering marked his face, a mask of grim determination, his eyes burning with a cold light. The hide of a snow beast provided protection, its snarling head a terrifying symbol.

Behind him, the Rubak army stretched out across the desolate plain, a vast, seething horde. Painted faces and crude weapons attested to their savagery; their unified purpose, to his leadership. Twelve hundred strong, they had marched.

He remembered the stories, legends passed down through generations of Rubaks. Tales of a time when they were not outcasts. They had had their own territory, their own leaders, their own place. Until the rebellion. A desperate uprising.

But the rebellion had been crushed. The Royal Family, fearing the Rubak's strength, decreed their exile. Stripped of their lands, their weapons, their dignity. Divided, scattered. Veigard had grown up on those stories, tasting the bitterness of injustice. He had seen his people suffer. He had vowed to change things.

He had not sought power for power's sake. He had sought strength. Strength to unite his people, to defy. He had spent years searching, learning, honing skills, forging alliances.

And then… he had found it. The power. The demonic energy. A seductive whisper. He had accepted it, knowing the risks.

Now, destiny awaited. The Volgunder outpost lay before him. He would crush it. He would crush them all. Reclaim what was rightfully his. Avenge his people. Fulfill the prophecy.

A massive, scarred fist clenched in command. The Rubak army roared its approval.

"Forward!" Veigard bellowed, his voice amplified by the demonic energy. "To Volgunder! To victory! To revenge!"

And the horde surged forward, a tide of savagery and hatred. A destiny carved by Veigard, the Chieftain of the Frozen Wind.

A strange presence, familiar and cold, brushed against his senses. He scanned, seeking a sign.

The feeling was fleeting, gone. His eyes fixed on the outpost once more. Victory, revenge, were within reach.

He would make the Drakonians pay. Suffer. Drown them in their own blood. He would show no mercy.

He would be the storm, the avalanche, the frozen wind. Their nightmare, their doom, their end.

A cold smile spread across his scarred face.

The drums of war began to beat, echoing the pounding of his heart.

The Rubak army chanted, voices rising in a cacophony of guttural sounds.

And Veigard began to walk.

Towards the outpost, towards his destiny, towards the frozen wind he had become.