The campfire flickered against the encroaching darkness, casting long, wavering shadows across the wood. The spoils of their latest raid lay scattered around the clearing: glittering trinkets, barrels of ale, and the scent of fresh blood still lingering in the air. Askeladd sat apart from the rest, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon where the first hints of dawn began to stir, he let out a deep, slow yawn, his mouth stretching wide and his eyelids drooping.

The night was cold, and the silence heavy, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire and the muffled murmurs of the weary warriors. Lost in thought, Askeladd's mind churned with plans and schemes, always a step ahead, always calculating. His men trusted him, respected him, and tonight, their trust had been rewarded once more with victory and loot.

As the first birds began to sing, Askeladd finally rose to his feet, the firelight catching in his red hair. His sharp blue eyes scanned the camp, noting which men stood watch and which slept. There was always work to be done, always another opportunity to seize, and Askeladd never missed an opportunity.