The fire burned low, thick smoke curling through the war-camp like the breath of an old beast. The night pressed cold and heavy against the gathered warriors, but the mead was strong, the food plentiful, and the blood of the last battle had not yet dried on their blades.

  Korrak sat near the fire, hunched forward, gnawing on a hunk of roasted meat, his great frame barely fitting on the wooden bench. His sword lay across the table beside him, close enough to reach, far enough to show he did not expect trouble.

  That expectation was about to be tested.

  Because the mage had ideas.

  And Korrak had run out of patience for ideas.

  "You’ll want to hear this," the mage said, sitting across from him.

  Korrak grunted, chewing slowly.

  The mage was young, sharp-eyed, and entirely too eager for his own good. His hair was dark and cropped short, but his golden eyes gleamed in the firelight, unnatural, flickering with something Korrak didn’t care to understand.

  He had seen the mage use that stare in battle, seen him weave fire from nothing, bend lightning like it was a blade, unravel a man’s soul with a whisper.

  It was impressive, Korrak supposed.

  But it still wasn’t steel.

  And steel was what won wars.

  The mage leaned forward, grinning like he had already won the argument.

  "There’s a tower. Blackspire."

  Korrak kept chewing.

  "A wizard's tower. Ancient. Older than any of the stone ruins your kind likes to piss on when they raid the south."

  Korrak grunted again.

  The mage took that as encouragement.

  "It’s filled with things we can use. Weapons. Spells. Gold. And I need you to help me take it."

  Korrak swallowed his food. Took a long drink of mead.

  Then he exhaled heavily and said, flatly, "No."

  The mage didn’t blink.

  "You haven’t even heard what I’m offering."

  "I heard."

  "You didn’t hear enough."

  Korrak scratched at his beard, finally turning his full attention to the mage.

  "I know wizards," he said. "They build towers to keep things out. That means you want something inside. Which means someone inside will want to keep us out. Which means I’ll have to spend my time breaking down doors, killing things I don’t understand, and watching you pretend to control the whole mess."

  The mage smiled.

  "That does sound like something you’d do."

  Korrak grunted again and went back to his meal.

  "Alright, fine," the mage continued, undeterred. "Let’s talk payment."

  "You don’t have enough."

  "I think I do."

  The mage steepled his fingers.

  "In Blackspire, there are artifacts. Enchanted weapons, armor, trinkets of war—things that would make your warriors stronger, things that wouldn’t break, wouldn’t dull, wouldn’t rust in the northern cold. There are potions that keep men fighting when their bodies should give out. There’s gold, enough to fund your next five campaigns."

  Korrak tore another chunk of meat from the bone and chewed.

  He was listening.

  Which, the mage knew, was more than half the battle.

  "With the things in that tower," the mage pressed, "you wouldn’t have to worry about replacing your swords. You wouldn’t have to spend months training men only for them to die from some bastard’s lucky stab. You’d be fighting with the best steel, the best armor, the best alchemy."

  Korrak took a long drink of mead.

  "You’d have an army," the mage added. "One that could take whatever it wanted."

  Korrak set his cup down.

  Finally, he looked at the mage—not just glancing, but really looking.

  The young fool actually believed this.

  Wizards were always like this. Always so certain, always talking about things that would happen, not things that could.

  But Korrak had spent his life in war.

  And war had a way of making liars out of promises.

  "You need me for this," Korrak said.

  "Obviously."

  "Why?"

  The mage sighed.

  "Because Blackspire isn’t just stone and spells. It’s a fortress. It’s guarded by men—real men, flesh and blood, swords and shields. And you know how to kill men better than anyone I’ve ever met."

  Korrak nodded. That much was true.

  The mage leaned forward, golden eyes gleaming.

  "You break the gates, I break the wizard. Then we take what we want."

  Korrak wiped his mouth, pushing his plate aside.

  "Who’s in the tower?"

  "Orvan the Veiled."

  Korrak frowned.

  He had heard that name. A long time ago, from men who did not frighten easily.

  "Strong?"

  "Old. Strong. Cautious." The mage shrugged. "But not unbreakable."

  Korrak studied him.

  The mage had done his research.

  Which meant he had been thinking about this for a long time.

  Korrak drummed his fingers against the table.

  "You say I get spoils of war."

  "You get first pick."

  "And if the tower is empty?"

  "Then you can test your sword on me," the mage said, smirking.

  Korrak grunted.

  And then, finally, he nodded.

  The mage’s grin widened.

  "I’ll start making preparations. I’ll gather the siege weapons, the supplies, the spellwork—"

  "You’ll do what I tell you to," Korrak interrupted, standing.

  The mage blinked.

  Korrak turned, grabbing his sword, slinging it over his shoulder.

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  "If this is a siege, we do it my way. Your wizard tricks won’t win this fight. Steel will. Fire will." He paused, rolling his shoulders. "You want to play your games? Fine. But I decide how this is done. If I say burn the whole place down, we burn it down."

  The mage hesitated.

  Then he laughed.

  "Alright, Korrak. Your war. My prize."

  Korrak nodded.

  "Then gather your men, mage. We march at dawn."

  Dawn broke over the war-camp like the slow pull of a dull blade across flesh. The sky was pale and cold, streaked with dying embers of the night’s last fire. Smoke from the cookfires drifted lazily over the gathered warriors, the scent of roasted meat mixing with the sharp tang of iron and sweat.

  Korrak stood near the center of the camp, arms folded, watching as his men roused themselves. Some had slept in their armor, others in furs, some not at all.

  This was a company that did not know peace.

  That was why he had chosen them.

  The mage, of course, was nowhere to be seen.

  Not yet.

  That one kept odd hours, muttering over books, staring at the air with those unnatural golden eyes. He would come, eventually. He always did.

  But Korrak wasn’t waiting on him.

  This was his warband, and if they were going to fight, they were going to fight his way.

  The core of the warband was already gathered.

  Men he had fought beside for years. Killers, raiders, war-dogs who had survived more battles than they had fingers.Some bore scars that marked them as veterans of long-dead wars. Others had no marks at all—because they had always been the ones doing the marking.

  Korrak knew each of them.

  Not by name.

  Names faded.

  But by how they fought.

  There was Jorik One-Hand, his axe strapped across his broad back, his remaining fist tightening in anticipation of whatever bloodletting awaited.

  There was Verrik the Pale, skin almost ghostly in the morning light, twin knives resting at his belt, already sharpening them as if he couldn’t imagine a moment wasted.

  There was Dren the Bastard, grinning through missing teeth, his chainmail rusted but well-worn, carrying a warhammer that had broken more bones than could be counted.

  And dozens more like them.

  Men who did not fight for glory.

  Men who fought because war was all they had left.

  But that was not enough.

  For a siege, he needed more. More bodies. More steel. More fire.

  He would have to call in debts.

  And that meant traveling.

  The first stop was the Stone Wolves.

  A mercenary company of hard, scarred men, led by Captain Runvik, a man with a voice like broken glass and a temper to match.

  Korrak found him exactly where he expected—counting coin near a burning corpse-pile, overseeing the aftermath of whatever slaughter he had last been paid for.

  Runvik looked up at Korrak’s approach and snorted.

  "Didn’t think you liked sieges."

  "Not usually."

  "Not enough blood for you?"

  "Not enough movement," Korrak corrected. "But this one’s different. Wizard’s tower. Plenty of killing before we even get to the gate."

  Runvik raised an eyebrow. Then he smiled.

  "Well, now. That does sound interesting."

  They rode next to the Red River Clans, deep in the hill country, where warriors wrapped in bone necklaces and war-paint greeted them with suspicion.

  Korrak had fought beside them before.

  They remembered.

  He did not need to convince them.

  Only tell them where the battle would be.

  A few more stops. Old allies, debtors, men who owed him a favor.

  Some agreed eagerly.

  Others took some persuasion.

  One man took a boot to the ribs and a knife at his throat before agreeing.

  Korrak wasn’t feeling patient that day.

  By the time he returned to camp, the warband had swollen.

  Not an army.

  But enough.

  Enough to take the fight to Blackspire.

  Enough to smash through whatever cursed thing the wizard had waiting for them.

  And if it wasn’t?

  Then they would die like warriors.

  No greater purpose.

  No higher calling.

  Just steel, fire, and the joy of the kill.

  The mage was waiting when Korrak returned.

  Of course, he was.

  Sitting on a broken wagon, picking at his nails, golden eyes gleaming like he could already see the battle unfolding.

  "Did you get your men?" he asked, grinning.

  Korrak grunted.

  "Good," the mage said, stretching. "Because I found us a siege weapon."

  Korrak frowned.

  The mage grinned wider.

  "It’s a monster."

  Korrak sighed.

  "Of course it is."

  Korrak had seen many terrible things in his life.

  He had seen men flayed alive on the frozen cliffs of the north. He had watched warriors drown in their own entrails, clawing at the dirt while crows pecked at their still-living eyes. He had fought beasts that should not have existed, heard whispers from things that had no mouths.

  And yet, somehow, he knew that today was going to be another test of his patience.

  Because the mage was smiling again.

  And that was never a good sign.

  They rode out before the sun had fully risen, Korrak flanked by a handful of his warriors, the mage beside him, humming like they weren’t on their way to hunt a monster.

  Korrak’s warhorse snorted against the cold, its breath steaming, hooves crunching through frostbitten earth. The mage, of course, did not ride a horse.

  The mage floated.

  Not much, just a few inches above the ground, his cloak dragging behind him, his golden eyes gleaming like they were always seeing something beyond the world of men.

  Korrak didn’t bother commenting on it.

  He had long since stopped trying to understand how the mage functioned.

  Instead, he focused on what was ahead.

  The ruined amphitheater loomed at the horizon, a collapsed remnant of an empire long since buried under war and time. Cracked stone, broken pillars, the faint echoes of old horrors still lingering in the wind.

  And, more importantly, the pit beneath it.

  "Tell me again," Korrak grunted, "why you thought this was a good idea."

  The mage sighed, exasperated.

  "Because a siege needs siege weapons, Korrak."

  "We have battering rams."

  "This is better than a battering ram."

  Korrak eyed him.

  "Then why haven’t you already taken it?"

  The mage flashed a toothy grin.

  "Because I need you to help me beat it into submission first."

  Korrak exhaled sharply through his nose.

  Of course.

  The amphitheater was silent when they entered.

  Not quiet.

  Silent.

  No wind.

  No birds.

  No sounds of insects skittering through the dirt.

  Just dead air, thick and waiting.

  Korrak dismounted, boot crunching against stone. His warriors fanned out, gripping their weapons tighter, eyes scanning the ruins.

  The mage lifted a hand, and the air hummed.

  The silence deepened.

  Then, from somewhere beneath them, there was a sound.

  A breath.

  Slow. Deep.

  Something massive, waking from sleep.

  The mage grinned wider.

  "There it is."

  Korrak sighed.

  "You get worse ideas every year."

  The pit was an old thing, carved into the earth, ringed by jagged stone like teeth in a broken mouth.

  Korrak stood at the edge, looking down, shoulders tensed.

  It was deep.

  And at the very bottom, something moved.

  It was a shadow at first, shifting, rising. Then, in the dim torchlight from the broken walls, it took shape.

  A colossal beast, twice the height of any man, its bulk thick with layered muscle, skin dark and cracked like volcanic rock.

  And its head—

  Too many eyes.

  They opened slowly, like gaping wounds, each one burning with a dull orange glow.

  The breathing grew louder.

  Then, finally, it rose to its full height.

  The thing was covered in scars, old wounds that had healed over thick and knotted, its flesh bearing the marks of past battles, past attempts to slay it.

  None had succeeded.

  And now, Korrak and the mage were here to leash it.

  Korrak rolled his shoulders.

  "This thing got a name?"

  The mage nodded.

  "Orcs call it the Mawborn."

  Korrak grunted.

  "Of course they do."

  The beast saw them now.

  And it did not like what it saw.

  It bellowed—a low, guttural roar, so loud the amphitheater shook and dust rained from the broken pillars.

  Then it charged.

  The fight was chaos.

  The Mawborn was fast for something so large, moving with horrifying speed, its massive arms swinging wide, claws carving through stone like soft wood.

  Korrak barely dodged the first strike, rolling to the side as an entire chunk of the amphitheater was obliterated in a single blow.

  His men scattered, shouting orders, trying to surround it.

  The mage, of course, was laughing.

  "Try not to kill it!" he called, hurling a bolt of lightning that barely seemed to slow the beast down.

  Korrak ignored him.

  Instead, he moved.

  Fast.

  He darted in low, blade flashing, slicing deep into the creature’s side. The wound barely bled.

  It didn’t even flinch.

  Instead, it turned, grabbed a broken column, and swung it at him like a club.

  Korrak ducked under it at the last second, but one of his men wasn’t so lucky.

  A crunch.

  A scream.

  Then nothing.

  Korrak exhaled.

  This was going to be annoying.

  The battle stretched on, steel and magic clashing against the raw, brutal force of the beast.

  The mage was constantly moving, flinging spells, dodging swipes, barking out words in some ancient tongue that probably meant nothing.

  Korrak was doing what he always did.

  Cutting. Striking. Wearing the thing down.

  The beast was strong.

  But Korrak had killed things stronger than him before.

  And he wasn’t planning on stopping today.

  The final blow was not a killing strike.

  It was a breaking one.

  Korrak caught its arm as it swung, pivoted, and with a roar of effort, forced the beast’s own weight against it.

  The Mawborn crumpled, falling to one knee.

  And that was when the mage struck.

  He **threw something into the air—**a handful of crushed bone, a whisper of words—and suddenly, the beast shuddered.

  Its body went rigid.

  Korrak stepped back, panting.

  The Mawborn didn’t move.

  But it was still alive.

  Still breathing.

  Still bound.

  Korrak looked at the mage.

  The mage grinned.

  "See? Better than a battering ram."

  Korrak sighed.

  "If this thing eats my men, I’m gutting you first."

  The mage clapped a hand on his shoulder, golden eyes gleaming.

  "Korrak, my friend, when have I ever led you wrong?"

  Korrak just stared at him.

  The mage coughed.

  "Alright, fair. But this time, I promise—it’ll work."

  Korrak grunted.

  The warband had their siege weapon.

  Now, they marched on Blackspire.

  Korrak sees your admiration.

  And he hates it.

  He is not a hero. Not a legend. Not some specter that walks between myth and reality, meant to be whispered about in awe. He does not care for the songs, the stories, the drunken retellings of his deeds that twist and swell with each passing tongue.

  If you had stood before him, clutching your reverence like a fool clutching a dull blade, he would have only stared. And then he would have walked past you.

  Because to Korrak, it was never about glory.

  It was about the hunt.

  And if he still lives, it is only because there is always another chase.