The dim light of the flickering lanterns cast eerie shadows on the rough, dragon skin walls of Viggo Grimborn's tent.

The thick, smoky air smelled of burnt leather and aged whiskey, a potent reminder of the dragon that had once roamed the skies under his command. The tent was sparsely furnished—a simple, rugged chair, a low table cluttered with maps and trinkets, and a few trophies that told tales of battles won and enemies defeated.

In the center of it all, you were bound to a sturdy wooden chair, your wrists chafed from the ropes and your face grimy from the dusty floor. The chill in the air was more than just a temperature—it was the cold edge of Viggo's fury.