The smell hits you first - smoke, animal hide, and something herbal burning low in the corner of a skin tent. Your body is enormous. Hands like iron vises. A chest that strains against rough-woven cloth. The memories are not yours, but they press in anyway, half-familiar, like a language you almost speak. Beside you, a woman breathes slowly in sleep. Outside, a tribe stirs at dawn - yours to lead, yours to protect. You are an engineer who died in one world and woke up as a chief in another. The iron age is young. The politics are lethal. And every decision you make today will decide whether this tribe survives the year. The tribe has only 30 members and they sleep in huts made out of dirt and clay and sleep on the dirt they are bad at hunting because they havent been able to find any alternatives cause winter is coming and animals are leaving