The wagon creaked slowly along the muddy forest road, its wheels half-sunken in the muck. Rorik sat stiffly at the front beside Karl, both cloaked and hooded against the chill. Beneath the wagon’s canvas covering, eleven men crouched in silence — the finest blades among the Golden Gryphons, packed behind barrels marked as ale. At their center was Baronsworth, his body coiled like a drawn bow, silent, still. One of the men held a knife pressed to Rorik’s ribs — unseen from the outside, but sharp enough to remind him of the cost of treachery.

  “There it is,” Rorik muttered, pointing ahead.

  Through the shifting mists, a ruin emerged.

  The old keep rose from the clearing, a desolate sentinel of stone, perched atop a low, rocky hilltop upon which it loomed over the surrounding lands. Broken towers silhouetted against the sky, walls half-collapsed, windows black as voids. Ivy clung to the outer stones like spreading decay, and crooked battlements reached upward, splintered and gaunt against the horizon.

  Around its base sprawled a makeshift camp: crude palisades of sharpened logs, rough watchtowers manned by sentries, and tents set in loose, uneven rows. From within, the flickering glow of countless campfires cast long, dancing shadows, giving the rough encampment an eerie, restless life. It was no fortress by noble standards — but it was defensible, hidden well by the forest edge, and deadly to those who stumbled upon it unawares.

  The wagon rolled closer to the gates. Inside, the hidden Gryphons grew tense with readiness, hands gripping hilts in the dark.

  “Halt!” came the call. A lone guard approached, squinting into the gloom.

  Karl gave nothing away. Rorik lifted his chin.

  “Oh, it’s you, sir,” the guard said, recognizing him. His stance eased. “You’ve been gone a while. Everything all right?”

  Tension thrummed within the cart, thick and uneasy. The dagger at Rorik’s ribs pressed a little deeper.

  “Yes, yes. You know how it is — one drink turns to ten. We also had a bit of fun with the serving girl.” He forced a crooked grin.

  The guard laughed, nodding his head. “I see, sir.”

  He stepped forward, eyeing the cart.

  “What are you bringing in?” he asked, tone casual — yet his gaze too sharp, too curious.

  Inside the wagon, the Gryphons tensed. Blades inched from scabbards. One breath — and it would all unravel.

  Rorik licked his lips. “A surprise. Something for the men. You’ll see it, when the time is right.”

  A flimsy lie, thin as parchment, betrayed by the eagerness in his voice. The silence that followed was a sword’s edge.

  The guard furrowed his brow. His gaze lingered on the barrels.

  “A surprise, eh?” he said at last.

  Rorik’s face remained still.

  The guard peered inside again, and then, gave a lopsided smile. “Looks like drink. I certainly hope it is! The lads have earned it.”

  He waved them through.

  The gate groaned open.

  A slow, silent breath swept through the wagon as every Gryphon inside exhaled.

  They were in.

  Inside the camp, the scale of the peril they found themselves in became revealed. The place was even larger than it had seemed from the outside — rows of tents clustered between fire pits and weapon racks, with men sprawled across bedrolls or drinking near the embers. Though quieter now in the depth of night, the Wolves were still thick as flies in dung. Hundreds slumbered. Dozens more kept idle watch, laughing, drinking, muttering in tongues laced with violence.

  The cart rattled across uneven ground.

  The Gryphons, hidden within, said nothing.

  They were alone now, surrounded on all sides — a dozen blades poised in the belly of the beast.

  High upon the stony rise stood the keep—its towers broken, its battlements torn asunder. Ancient banners, faded and frayed, clung to the wind in tatters, stained by rain and smoke. Time and war had scoured its grandeur away, leaving a husk of memory, now claimed by the Wolves as their den.

  Rorik had told them everything: within those fallen walls lay their finest arms, their hoarded plunder — all the silver and steel stolen through fire and blood. A great bonfire crackled in the inner courtyard, casting the blackened stones in shifting gold. Shadows danced like specters along the crumbling ramparts.

  Few figures moved within; only a scattering of sentries lingered, their watch languid. The Wolves did not trust one another, and fewer still were trusted with guarding their gold.

  The cart rolled steadily up the winding path, its wheels groaning over ruts and slick stone. The road narrowed, enclosed by tangled brush and the steep rise of the hill. Around the base of the keep, a ring of tents huddled in the firelight — lesser quarters, arranged in rough rows, cloaked in darkness save for the bonfire’s reach.

  Karl guided the cart with measured calm, easing it into shadow near the edge of the central clearing.

  Two sentries stepped forward.

  “You’re back, sir. Productive trip?” asked the first, addressing Rorik.

  Rorik offered a crooked grin. “You’ve no idea.”

  “What’ve you brought?” the second inquired, his voice slurred with drink.

  “A surprise!” Rorik said brightly. “A reward for all your hard work.”

  A dagger pressed against his ribs — a sharp reminder not to play too loosely. He winced, the grin faltering for half a heartbeat.

  “Summon the lads,” he said, regaining composure. “This is something they’ll want to see.”

  “Sir, yes sir!” the first sentry replied with a sloppy salute before heading toward the ruined keep.

  The other lingered, still eyeing the cart.

  “A surprise, eh?” he mused, squinting at the barrels. “For us?” He stepped closer, curiosity dulling his caution. “Let’s have a look then…”

  Inside, Baronsworth’s fingers wrapped around the hilt of his dagger.

  “Don’t—” Rorik hissed, but it was too late.

  The sentry leaned in.

  His eyes widened as he glimpsed the hidden shapes — too many, too still.

  The dagger flew.

  It struck the man clean in the throat with a soft, wet crunch. He staggered back, gurgled, and dropped into the mud without a sound.

  “Now!” Baronsworth whispered.

  The Gryphons surged from the cart like shadows slipping from a dream. Bows drawn, arrows nocked — they fanned out with silent precision. Missiles loosed in quick succession, streaking through the dark toward the men clustered by the bonfire. Each shot struck true.

  The Wolves collapsed where they sat, dead before their cries could reach the air.

  Then — footsteps.

  The first sentry returned, a dozen Wolves at his back, bunched up and grinning.

  “A surprise, for us!” he announced.

  Laughter rose.

  Then — a second volley. The laughter died in an instant. Bodies dropped in the firelight, some struck mid-step, others as they turned to run. Stillness fell once more. No alarm had sounded.

  Baronsworth gave the signal, and the men moved out. Karl lingered only to knock Rorik unconscious with the butt of his blade, binding and gagging him before hauling him into the shadows.

  Moving swiftly, they swept the perimeter. The first structure was little more than a supply depot, crammed with crates of food, dry goods, and spare bedding. Karl snatched a sausage from atop a barrel and bit off a hefty chunk.

  The second was more promising: an armory, packed with steel. Racks of weapons lined the interior — spears and swords stacked high, axes hung in rows, sturdy shields stowed like trophies. The Gryphons armed themselves without a word, grateful for the chance to strike heavier. Their journey in had left them lightly equipped, but this would even the odds.

  “That’s more like it!” Karl whispered, a low growl of satisfaction. His eyes landed on a tower shield leaning against the wall—broad, dark, edged in silver, clearly stripped from some noble knight long dead. He hefted it with satisfaction, pairing it with a fine spear.

  Baronsworth nodded, eyes scanning the outer wall.

  “Rorik spoke true, this will serve us well.”

  He stepped toward the bonfire that roared in the keep’s center. The Gryphons followed, forming a grim ring around it in the shadows. From a hidden stash, each man drew arrows, made for this very moment. They touched the tips to the flame, and they blazed to life. Fire danced along the shafts, eager and hungry.

  Baronsworth drew a steady breath.

  Twelve bows rose in unison.

  Twelve arrows leveled toward the enemy below.

  “Loose!”

  The flaming shafts soared into the dark, their light trailing like falling stars. For a heartbeat, the camp below remained still. Then the first tent shuddered — canvas smoldering, then flaring bright as fire spread hungrily across the cloth. Another tent caught. Then another. Within moments, the encampment was alive with fire, the blaze multiplying like a chain of sparks in dry grass.

  Screams rang out. Men spilled from their shelters, half-dressed, blinded by smoke, stumbling barefoot into flame. Some tried to fight the fire, beating at canvas with cloaks already burning. Others fled, howling, as comrades collapsed in the inferno. Shouts of command cut through the air, but the roar of the blaze swallowed them whole. Death feasted freely, gorging on the frenzy.

  Still the Gryphons loosed, arrows streaking like sparks from a forge. Fire rained mercilessly from the heights.

  Panic below hardened into rage. Faces turned upward toward the hill, teeth bared, blades glinting. The Wolves began to rally, an angry tide swelling at the edge of the burning camp.

  Baronsworth’s gaze narrowed. “Brace yourselves!” he cried. “We’re about to have company.”

  He plucked another arrow, sent it arcing high — a fiery streak across smoke and night.

  Below, the Wolves gathered in force. Dozens at first. Then more. A seething mob surged toward the hill, torches flaring, weapons raised, pouring toward the narrow path that wound upward through the dark.

  An idea struck Baronsworth like a thunderbolt.

  “Quickly! We don’t have much time!” he barked, sprinting toward the wagon.

  A few of the Gryphons followed. They unhitched the horses and turned the cart toward the slope. Baronsworth grabbed the side and nodded.

  “Set it alight!”

  Several missiles found their mark, and the cart was swiftly engulfed. The wooden barrels inside, still coated with the sticky pitch that had once lined their interiors—where the oil-soaked arrows had been hidden—caught quickly. Flames curled upward into the night. As the fire roared and consumed it, they gave one final heave.

  The burning wagon descended like a fiery juggernaut, fueled by speed and fury. It hit the ascending Black Wolves with devastating force, crushing bodies and shattering their formation. Flames burst outward in a savage plume, and the hillside echoed with screams.

  The Gryphons let out a cheer — short-lived.

  Below, the Wolves regrouped. Dazed and wounded, but not defeated. More kept coming, climbing over the wreckage of the cart, rallying with blind fury. The ground shook with the drumbeat of hundreds of steps.

  Baronsworth stepped forward, his voice ringing out across the hilltop. “This is it!” he called. “Hold the line!”

  He drew Lightbringer from its sheath. The blade caught the firelight — a muted sheen of ancient steel, darkened by the alchemical oil. Yet still it shone, in its own grim way — a relic of wrath and righteousness.

  The Gryphons moved as one, shields raised, knees bent, forming a tight wall of iron just short of the hill’s edge. The slope would work in their favor. Momentum was with them. If they held the high ground, they could stem the tide of death set upon them, and halt the ascent.

  Baronsworth stood at the center, Karl beside him — the anchor of the line.

  Twelve against a horde.

  But they did not falter. For they had come to end the Black Wolves, once and for all.

  “It’s… it’s Magnus!” one of the foes cried out as they neared the summit.

  “Can’t be,” muttered another. “Magnus is ten feet tall.”

  “No, it is him! I’ve seen him before—the giant who fights with the Gryphons! We’re doomed!”

  “Silence!” barked their commander, a hard-eyed brute with a scarred face and a blade in each hand. “He’s just a man. Now up the hill! We won’t let a handful of gutless Gryphons make fools of us tonight!”

  Still, the fear in their eyes lingered.

  The Wolves pressed forward, but the narrow slope slowed them, the mud clutching at their boots. The same mire that eased the wagon’s descent now snared their advance. Baronsworth, standing at the heart of the Gryphon line, wondered if it was more than chance—if the gods had once again laid a hidden hand upon his path. His father’s words echoed in his mind: “There is no such thing as coincidence.” But now was no time for prophecy. The enemy was upon them.

  The Wolves crashed into the Gryphons like a wave against stone. Steel rang, teeth bared, war cries split the night. Blood spilled in torrents.

  The Gryphons fought like lions, their height and formation giving them strength. Shields locked, blades flashing, they struck low, forcing the Wolves to climb into slaughter. Men toppled, one after another, but the line, though battered, held.

  And in the center, Baronsworth rose like a force of nature.

  He wielded Lightbringer with terrible grace — each stroke a ruthless cadence of ruin. The blade rose and fell, severing limbs, splitting helms, silencing men. His eyes blazed with cold fury, his breastplate slick with blood. Yet he pressed on, relentless, disciplined, devastating. No flourish. No wasted motion. Only the pitiless precision of a warrior long tempered by war.

  To the Wolves, he was no longer a man.

  He was death incarnate.

  A demon from the old tales, risen to avenge the innocent and scourge the wicked. His cry tore from his chest — raw, primeval — and even the boldest faltered beneath its sound. In his shadow, they saw punishment made flesh, a reckoning for sins long unatoned.

  The Gryphons rallied to his side, their courage set alight by his fury. They shouted as one, blades raised in defiance, and the line surged forward. Wolves broke and fell before them, bodies piling at their feet like grim offerings to death.

  But still the enemy came.

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  The slope began to shift beneath the weight of corpses. The dead gave firmer footing than the mud, and the Wolves clambered up with growing ease, trampling their fallen comrades to get at the enemies above.

  Baronsworth gritted his teeth, parried a strike, and drove his blade into a snarling face. Then he lashed out with a brutal kick that hurled another man down the slope, knocking several others with him as he fell.

  It bought them a breath, no more.

  “We’re being overrun,” Karl warned, sweat streaking the dirt of his brow. His great tower shield was dented but still whole. He stood resolute, but his voice was strained—his limbs tiring.

  All around them, the Gryphons fought on, but the cost was rising. Exhaustion gnawed at their strength. Their breathing came ragged, their arms heavy. And still the Wolves kept coming—howling for vengeance, heedless of their dead.

  Baronsworth took a breath. He felt the ache in his limbs, the weight of the moment pressing on his soul.

  “If I die tonight,” he whispered to himself, “then I die with honor. Never again will I flee.”

  Then he raised Lightbringer, thick with blood, overhead.

  “Gryphons!” he cried. “Let them taste our steel before we meet our end!”

  With that, he charged.

  A roar burst from his throat, fierce and clear, and he plunged into the tide. The Gryphons thundered behind him and surged forward—defying the odds with steel and fury.

  Twelve against hundreds.

  And just when all seemed lost—

  A sudden uproar rippled through the enemy camp. Shouts rose from every quarter. The Black Wolves froze mid-charge, heads snapping toward the commotion. Then, in disbelief, they watched their own walls collapse.

  The palisades — hastily built, anchored in rain-softened earth — were torn down one by one. Ropes had been fixed to their beams, and with the strength of draft horses, the outer defenses crumbled under their own weight. The night groaned with the sound of toppling timber and rent soil.

  And through the breaches, at last, came reinforcements.

  The Gryphons had arrived, Count Varador’s men at their side — a tide of wrath and retribution. They poured through the gaps like water through shattered stone, crashing into the Wolves’ flanks with overwhelming force.

  Moments later, the main gates burst wide.

  And through them rode Siegfried.

  His golden hair blazed with firelight, his blade—Mercy—a gleaming promise of death in his hands. Beside him rode the Gryphons' finest, masterful in the arts of knighthood and forged for the raw savagery of battle, leading the full strength of their host at the vanguard.

  They charged into the rear of the Black Wolves like a spear from heaven, trampling and cleaving all in their path. The effect was immediate — devastating.

  Caught between hammer and anvil, the ruffians buckled. Some were slain where they stood. Others fled — scattering like leaves in a gale.

  Siegfried led his warriors with rare abandon. His usual calm was swept away, overtaken by something fierce and unrestrained. Mercy sang as it cut down foe after foe, and the Gryphons bore down behind him — vengeance unleashed after years of bitter rivalry and blood.

  The Wolves began to break.

  Their lines dissolved. Some dropped their weapons and begged for quarter. Others turned and ran, only to be cut down from behind. The Gryphons pressed forward — a tide of unstoppable might and grim resolve — granting no escape, no mercy.

  Though some of the Wolves still fought, their hearts were gone from them. Surrounded, disarmed, exhausted — their fate was sealed. The Gryphons closed in, relentless and decisive, as one by one, their foes fell or yielded.

  From atop the hill, Baronsworth watched it all unfold.

  Blood streaked his armor. Corpses lay strewn at his feet, their faces twisted in disbelief, their lifeblood fading into the drenched earth. His chest rose and fell with measured breath. And at last, as the sounds of battle faded into the lament of the dying and the fiery glow of the ruined camp, a slow smile crept across his face.

  Victory was complete. Their mad plan had paid off.

  He turned his gaze toward the center of the camp, where Siegfried carved a path like a hurricane of steel.

  “I’ll let you take it from here, my friend,” he murmured to the flames.

  Baronsworth made his way into the ruined keep.

  He passed beneath crumbling archways and through long-forgotten corridors, where the stone bore the deep scars of time and weather — rain-slicked decay, wind-borne ruin, the slow encroachment of moss and rot. Shadows gathered thick between the splintered columns, and each footfall echoed like a herald of doom.

  At last, he reached the great hall.

  It was a vault of plunder — a hoard of stolen riches pillaged from a score of burned provinces. Chests overflowed with coin, stacked high atop one another like monuments to greed. Gilded statues stood as silent sentries beside cracked marble pillars. Faded tapestries, blackened by smoke and age, hung limply along the walls — bearing the coats of arms of lords long dead. Suits of armor, polished and waiting, gleamed coldly in the gloom. There was something regal here — but twisted. A fallen glory turned to ash and echo.

  The air felt thick. Haunted. Reverent. Accursed.

  And at the far end, shrouded in a deeper dark, stood a dais.

  Upon it sat a throne — high-backed, ancient, untouched by firelight. The shadows seemed to cling to it, as though even the flames feared its presence.

  Baronsworth stood for a moment, gazing upon it. The relic of some long-dead glory — now hollow and forgotten. Slowly, he stepped forward.

  That was when the figures emerged — slipping from behind pillars and broken walls like phantoms given shape.

  Six men.

  Five of them were massive: broad-shouldered, draped in wolf pelts, their pale skin inked with vivid blue tattoos. Varangir — warriors from the savage northern wastes. Their breath came slow and steady, like beasts coiled before the pounce.

  The sixth man was different.

  Tall and lean, with skin like burnished bronze and a vertical scar running through one of his dark, keen eyes. His scalp was shaved clean, as was his jaw, and his features were sharp and elegant — noble in their austerity, but unkind. He held a curved scimitar in one hand, its edge catching the darkness like a serpent’s fang. His very being spoke of Azaran, the Golden Desert: the harsh grace, the sun-carved skin, the quiet, coiled poise of a man forged beneath unforgiving skies.

  “A welcoming committee,” Baronsworth said, his voice dry with mockery. “How gracious. I had expected cowards in hiding — and lo, here you are. Skulking in the dark while your comrades bleed.”

  The southerner stepped forward, his tone calm, almost polite. “We were charged with guarding this chamber.”

  “And so you did,” Baronsworth said with a crooked grin. “You guarded it well — all the way to your graves. Still… surrender now, and I may consider letting you live.”

  “Your taunts mean nothing here,” the man replied. “It is you who should yield. You are outnumbered. Outmatched.”

  Baronsworth's smile only deepened.

  He eyed the Varangir one by one — each a titan in his own right, their weapons grim and terrible: a halberd, a two-handed axe, a massive greatsword, a grand hammer, and twin axes honed to a deadly sheen.

  They looked every bit as deadly as they did disciplined — elite warriors, likely among the fiercest the Black Wolves had to offer. Baronsworth realized if these men had joined the battle on the hill, the tide might have turned. But they had remained behind, hoarding treasure while their brothers died, and so the day had turned against them.

  They had formed a half-circle, weapons raised, cutting off his advance. They stood like sentinels of death — broad, grim, and silent — their inked skin and blood-hardened leather a dark, unmoving presence in the gloom.

  He weighed his choices: he could flee, perhaps call for help. But the odds of escape were slim — and the thought alone curdled in his gut. Run? No. Not again. Not as he had on that night — the night his family died, and he had fled into the dark like a broken thing.

  He had sworn never to flee again.

  And tonight, he burned with a grim confidence — fed by the ruin they had brought to the Wolves, and by the fury still boiling in his blood.

  “Outmatched?” he asked, a dangerous glint in his voice. “Are there more of you back there? Because you’re going to need them.”

  The olive-skinned man let out a sharp laugh. “Pathetic fool. Very well — we’ll take your blood as tribute.”

  He raised a hand.

  From the shadows behind him, a longbow sang.

  Baronsworth moved as lightning.

  He twisted aside and caught the arrow on the edge of his blade — the shaft splintering midair — and in the same breath, he drew his dagger and flung it into the dark.

  There was a sickening rip, followed by a startled grunt — then choking. A ragged breath. A thud as a body hit the floor, then a faint, final shuddering sound before silence.

  “I knew it,” Baronsworth muttered.

  He raised Lightbringer high — the blade gleaming crimson with blood — and took the stance of a master duelist ringed by foes. Rage surged within him. His heartbeat roared in his ears.

  “Cowards!” he bellowed. “I am Magnus, champion of the Golden Gryphons! And today, I will stomp out your blight from this world!”

  He stood tall — a dark figure bathed in gore, armor glistening, a vision of wrath clad in steel.

  The southern warrior spat. “Whatever your name, you are just a man — and you will bleed like one!”

  He lunged, and the others followed, charging as one.

  They struck with fury. Steel flashed in the dim light, blades hammering down in relentless rhythm — but Baronsworth met them all. Sparks leapt, the great hall ringing with the song of battle. He gave no ground, his stance fluid, precise — a fortress of motion.

  Then — an opening.

  The halberd-bearer overreached, just slightly. Baronsworth shifted his weight and answered in a single stroke — silver and scarlet flashing. A head toppled, body crumpling beside it.

  The warrior with twin axes howled — grief and rage twisting his face. He hurled himself forward, blows wild, reckless, breaking the rhythm of his companions.

  Baronsworth met fury with cold steel. He slipped inside the onslaught, cut the arm from the elbow, and before the scream had formed, he drove Lightbringer upward, skewering him clean through. The warrior sagged lifeless to the floor.

  The hammer rose next — a crushing swing aimed from behind. Too slow.

  Baronsworth spun, loosing Lightbringer like a spear. The blade sang through the air and buried itself deep in the man’s chest. Before the corpse could fall, Baronsworth was upon him, reclaiming his sword in one motion and finishing the strike — a savage arc that sent the head rolling across the stone.

  Three remained.

  Still they came — furious, desperate — but Baronsworth felt the shift. The momentum was his.

  He steadied his stance, drew strength from the ground beneath, and swung Lightbringer in a colossal arc — a strike like a falling star.

  The greatsword met it — foolishly.

  Steel shattered. The blow cleaved through the man’s shoulder, bone splintering as he fell screaming to the dirt.

  Two remained.

  And now Baronsworth pressed forward.

  He unleashed a storm of steel, each cut flowing into the next with ruthless precision. The last two faltered beneath his advance, forced back step by step.

  The axeman broke first. Baronsworth split his guard and drove Lightbringer deep into his gut. The man wheezed once, folding around the blade before crumpling lifeless to the ground.

  Baronsworth spun free, the sword tearing loose in a seamless motion.

  Only one remained.

  “Impressive,” the southerner rasped, rising slowly to his feet. Blood dripped from his shoulder, yet pride still lit his eyes. “It has been long since I faced a foe worth naming. Perhaps… at last, I’ve found the man who will grant me an honorable death.”

  He lifted his scimitar in high guard — defiant, unshaken.

  Baronsworth gave no reply.

  The fire of battle burned through him — rage mingled with exultation. Without a word, he surged forward, a force unbound. His blade struck in relentless rhythm, each blow folding into the next like links in an unbreakable chain.

  The southerner reeled, sparks flying with every clash. He was quick, skilled — but not enough. Desperation lent him speed. He rolled back, then dove low as Baronsworth closed, sliding across the blood-slick stone.

  Baronsworth slipped. The scimitar flashed upward, aiming for his groin.

  But even in the fall, he twisted — Lightbringer catching the stroke on its flat. Steel screamed against steel.

  The southerner lunged, seeking to finish it, leaping high with blade raised for the killing blow.

  But Baronsworth was faster.

  He thrust upward.

  The scimitar-wielder was caught mid-air — impaled on the rising sword. His eyes widened in shock and pain. For a long moment, their gazes locked — life draining from the southerner’s pupils, recognition flickering in the dying light.

  Then Baronsworth wrenched the blade free and hurled the body aside.

  It smashed into a crumbling pillar with a sound of breaking bone — a final, brutal end.

  He stood still, breathing hard, chest heaving. His heart pounded like a war drum. He raised his sword, blood cascading from its edge.

  “Well fought,” he whispered into the stillness. His breath slowed, his chest rising and falling with measured calm as he forced his pulse back under command.

  Then— a slow, deliberate clap echoed from the far end of the chamber.

  Baronsworth turned.

  A voice emerged from the shadows. Smooth. Cold. Amused.

  “Well done. An impressive display.”

  Baronsworth raised his blade once more, eyes narrowing toward the throne — still half-cloaked in shadow.

  From its depths stepped a figure.

  He was tall — taller than any man Baronsworth had faced that night. His presence alone seemed to fill the room, amplified by the weight of his armor. He wore a great helm of blackened steel that hid much of his face, save for a pair of piercing blue eyes that burned like frostfire beneath the rim.

  A long golden beard, immaculately braided, spilled down his chest.

  His torso was sheathed in a dark chain hauberk that reached to the knees, overlain by lamellar armor — hundreds of lacquered plates, now dulled and scratched, once bright with the colors of a noble legion. Even damaged, the armor whispered of prestige — of long service in places few survived.

  In one hand, he held a great axe.

  Its edge gleamed sharp and cold, a crescent of death balanced effortlessly in his grip.

  “Wulf,” Baronsworth growled.

  The towering figure inclined his head. “Magnus.”

  Their names struck the air like iron on iron.

  “We have a debt to settle, Varangir.”

  Wulf stepped forward, unhurried. “Do we?” His voice was calm, almost philosophical. “Hatred runs deep in you Gryphons. You speak of honor, of valor… but in the end, you are just men. Ruled by desire. By anger.”

  Baronsworth’s eyes narrowed.

  “The pain you’ve brought my brothers burns in me. But that is not the fire that fuels my soul.”

  “Oh?” Wulf’s brow rose beneath the rim of his helm. “Then what grievance stirs the Landless Baron so deeply?”

  Baronsworth’s voice cut like a blade.

  “The Great Purge.”

  Silence fell, deep as a tomb.

  “The slaughter of innocent children,” he said. “Those born beneath the Great Star. I’ve come to see their blood repaid — every drop, with your own.”

  At that, Wulf stilled. Slowly, a smile curled his lips.

  “Ah…” he breathed. “Now I see.”

  He stepped forward, studying Baronsworth with new intent. The ice-blue of his eyes gleamed — not with mockery, but recognition. Revelation.

  “You,” he murmured. “You are one of them.”

  Another step.

  “A child of prophecy… born beneath the comet. And now grown to vengeance.”

  His axe dipped — not in surrender, but in solemn acknowledgement.

  “Well then,” Wulf said, voice low and heavy as stone, “this meeting is more than I imagined.”

  Baronsworth’s blade did not waver.

  “You haven’t killed us all,” he said. “Fate, it seems, is not without irony.”

  Wulf’s gaze narrowed. He straightened to his full height, slow and deliberate.

  “You despise me,” he said. “I see it. I feel it — that fire in your chest. But tell me, Magnus… do you not see? We are the same.”

  Baronsworth spat in the dirt. “I am nothing like you, fiend.”

  “No?” Wulf tilted his head, eyes gleaming beneath the helm. “Are you so certain? Can you swear, truly, that every soul you’ve slain was guilty? Who gave you the right to judge them? Are you Helm incarnate, god of Justice? Is that why you march beneath the banner of his consort, Valeria?”

  “Every man I’ve slain,” Baronsworth answered, voice hard as stone, “raised arms against me or those I love. I have never harmed the helpless.”

  A faint smile touched Wulf’s lips. “So you say. And yet… I know of your deeds. Men cut down as they knelt, broken and weeping, blades abandoned, begging for mercy. Were they not defenseless? Was that not cruelty in its purest form?”

  “They paid for their crimes.”

  Wulf shook his head slowly.

  “And what of the Starborn?” His tone sharpened. “Those children marked by the Great Comet. The wise seers spoke clearly — they would herald ruin, shatter the balance of the world! Tell me, Magnus… were they wrong?”

  He stepped forward, deliberate.

  “Since the comet blazed across the heavens, the Orc hordes have descended. Argos is shattered, the Western Holy Empire lies in ruin. And you—” he gestured toward Baronsworth, “wherever you tread, blood follows. A hundred battlefields soaked in death. Look around you — are you not prophecy made flesh?”

  Baronsworth held his silence.

  Wulf’s voice fell to a whisper, heavy as the stillness before a tempest.

  “You’ve brought death, Magnus. Wherever you go, it follows. Death… and destiny.”

  Baronsworth’s grip tightened on Lightbringer. Still, he did not move.

  “We are more alike than you dare admit,” Wulf pressed. “Exiles, both of us. Cast out. Betrayed by the powers we once served. I was discarded by the Emperor himself, abandoned with the men who bled for his crown. And you… hunted. Driven from your home. Stripped of name, stripped of birthright.”

  Baronsworth stiffened. His heartbeat quickened.

  Wulf went on, voice rising.

  “Only one thing remains to you now,” Wulf continued, gaze flicking to the sword in Baronsworth’s hand. “That blade. Worn. Scarred. But unmistakable — the last heirloom of a fallen house. I know it. I always have. You did not find it in some ruin, as some stories claim. It was forged for your blood. A relic of a noble line brought low… when the West fell into ruin.”

  Baronsworth gave no reply. But something shifted in his face — not fear, not alarm, just a quiet breath. A faint easing in his stance. Wulf was close — but wrong. He believed Magnus to be a remnant of the Holy Empire, another noble line lost to the cataclysm. He did not know the truth. The mask of the Landless Baron had once more proven its worth.

  Wulf stepped forward, his voice rising with fervor. “My arms and armor are all that remain to me as well. Symbols of what was stolen — and what will be restored.” He turned, gesturing to the glittering hoard heaped across the broken hall. “Look at what I’ve built: wealth, men to my banner, power enough to carve a kingdom. This is only the beginning.”

  He faced Baronsworth again, eyes alight with zeal.

  “It could be yours, Magnus. All of it. Your lands. Your title. Your name — restored. As I will reclaim mine: the throne of the Varangir, across Thoros Nimbar, the Ivory Mountains. The northern realms await me.”

  He extended a hand.

  “Join me. My master is greater than this ruined count you serve — greater even than the Emperor, who fades into irrelevance. The Empire is dying. The old ways are crumbling. But a new order rises. One of strength. One of purpose. Wealth, glory — divinity. All of it ripe for the taking.”

  His voice boomed now across the hollow keep.

  “We were not made to grovel among the common wretches. We were born to rule — to ascend. Greatness is our birthright, Magnus. We need only reach out and claim it.”

  His smile was almost tender, but the words carried iron. “There is perhaps truth in the old prophecies. That the one born beneath the Great Star is destined for greatness — to shape the world anew. And you, Magnus... it’s clear you were meant to rise. Why fight what the fates have written? Let us stand together. Enough blood has been shed between us. Let it end now — not in ruin, but in triumph.”

  Baronsworth raised Lightbringer.

  “I came here to claim something, Wulf,” he said. “Not power. Not treasure.”

  His voice lowered — quiet, yet menacing.

  “I came for your head.”

  He took a step forward, gaze steady. “You’ll pay for the blood you’ve spilled. And if your master stands in my way…”

  His glare sharpened. “Then he dies next.”

  Wulf’s smile faded. He gave a soft laugh, low and joyless. “Even if you slay me, you don’t understand what you face. My master is power incarnate — vast, ancient. You are a spark — and he, a flood that drowns kingdoms. Defy him, and you will be but another worm, crushed beneath his heel.”

  He spread his stance, muscles coiling, hunger flashing in his gaze.

  “But I am not yet dead, boy. If you want my head...”

  He lowered his axe into a fighting stance, eyes wild and gleaming.

  “Then come and take it.”

  With a savage roar, Wulf charged.

  The first blow came like a falling mountain. Baronsworth barely brought Lightbringer up in time—as steel met steel with a ferocity, and the ground beneath them shuddered. Sparks burst into the air like scattered stars. Wulf pressed forward, his strikes unbridled yet precise—raw might tempered by years of war. He wielded his axe like a siege engine, delivering blow after crushing blow, each swing as potent as it was deadly.

  Baronsworth moved like a hungry predator—a dance of death and purpose, every motion calculated, precise. He ducked low beneath a brutal sideways arc and countered with a strike aimed at Wulf’s ribs, but the Varangir’s axe parried it with a shriek. They broke apart, circled, and clashed again.

  The hall echoed with the violence of champions. This was a foe stronger than any Baronsworth had faced in a very long time. A colossus of muscle and power.

  A backhand from Wulf caught Baronsworth across the jaw, drawing blood. The younger man staggered, recovered, drove his shoulder forward to force distance, then surged back in — Lightbringer carving twin arcs of silver fire in the dim light. The axe caught one, but the second nicked Wulf’s thigh. He grunted, pain flashing in his face — but it only drove him harder.

  Again and again, they clashed. Steel howled. The ring of their blows filled the air, sharp and relentless. Two masters of war—equals in fury, rivals in craft—locked in a maelstrom of violence where neither could gain the edge. Then, with a crushing swing that shattered their rhythm, Wulf hurled Baronsworth backward—the impact sending him sprawling across the blood-slick stone.

  “You are good, boy.” Wulf bellowed. “But I am better!”

  He charged, axe raised for the killing blow.

  But Baronsworth surged back to his feet — and they collided once more. They became locked in a contest — brute force against brute will.

  Wulf leaned in, teeth bared, pressing the axe against Baronsworth’s guard. “Such strength!” he snarled. “I see now why victory follows you like a shadow.”

  Baronsworth met his gaze — calm amid the chaos, eyes like blue steel.

  And then, in a blur of motion, he twisted aside — turning Wulf’s own weight against him.

  And struck.

  Lightbringer flashed.

  Both of Wulf’s hands fell to the stone — cleanly severed at the wrists.

  The axe clattered beside him, lifeless.

  Wulf dropped to his knees, blood pouring in thick streams down his arms. But his face showed no fear.

  Only awe.

  “Well done, Magnus,” he said, laughing through blood and pain. “I’d clap… but I seem to have misplaced my hands.”

  Baronsworth stood over him, chest heaving, face carved in stone.

  Their eyes met.

  “Do it,” Wulf rasped. “Send me to the halls of my fathers. Let me die as a warrior.”

  Baronsworth raised Lightbringer.

  “This is for the innocents you’ve killed.”

  And with one clean stroke, he severed Wulf’s head.

  It struck the stone with a heavy thud.

  Silence fell over the ruin.

  The blood ran dark, spreading into the ancient cracks of the stone hall. At last, Baronsworth lowered his sword — and far away, lightning rolled across the darkened sky.

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