Ragnar crouched low behind a thicket, the moonlight casting a silvery glow over the landscape. The rebel camp lay ahead, a cluster of flickering fires and shadowy figures as a few men milled around, oblivious to the storm that was about to descend upon them.
He could hear the low murmur of voices, the clinking of metal, and the occasional laughter that echoed through the night air. The rebels seemed to be existing with a false sense of security, one that Ragnar intended to shatter.
He signaled to his troops, a group of elite fighters trained for moments like this. Ragnar had chosen them for their skill, their loyalty, and their unyielding resolve.
They moved silently like ghosts, slipping through the underbrush, their dark clothing blending seamlessly with the night.
Each soldier was a master of stealth, their weapons honed to deadly perfection.
