The competition on the deck of my chariot was reaching a fever pitch. The Berserkers were shouting, placing bets, and swinging their weapons at every ripple in the air.
I stood to the side in contemplative silence, watching the chaotic scene and asking myself what exactly I had gotten myself into by adding Wrayly and his boisterous forces to my own in this campaign.
The man was a tactical genius in a brawl, but his personality was like a landslide—unstoppable and messy. Would I regret this partnership later? Possibly. But for now, I needed their hammers.
"So, we aren't heading directly toward the city of that bastard?" Wrayly asked, his brow furrowing in a mix of doubt and burgeoning anger. He looked at me as if I had just conned him out of a promised prize.
