The south was a land of sweat and blood.

  Its cities were built on the backs of slaves, its palaces lined with gold ripped from dying hands. Here, coin was god, and its priests were the merchant kings—men who had never swung a sword in battle, yet commanded armies with the stroke of a pen. They dined on the spoils of betrayal, sat atop thrones carved from suffering. Men like Aldric, Jerran, and Myron.

  Korrak had come to them as a buyer, not as a killer.

  He had trusted them, foolishly, believing that coin might hold more weight than steel in the sweltering south. He had paid a king’s ransom in gold and relics, seeking weapons to outfit his warriors in the north, to arm those who still held to the old ways. He had been met with smiles and handshakes, with assurances that his steel would be delivered.

  And then they had tried to kill him.

  The deal had been a lie. The weapons had never existed. Korrak had arrived at the docks to collect his shipment, only to find an ambush waiting. The merchant kings had sent a hundred hired killers, mercenaries in lacquered armor, armed with crossbows and curved swords, waiting in the shadows of towering spice warehouses.

  Korrak had smelled it before he saw it.

  The air had been thick with sweat and tension, the scent of men trying to stand still, trying to quiet their breath.

  He had not waited.

  The first man had died before he could fire.

  Korrak lunged low, fast, an axe in each hand, his bare chest glistening with sweat. The first cut split a throat, the second shattered a kneecap, and suddenly, the ambush had turned into a massacre.

  Crossbow bolts hissed through the air, some grazing his skin, one slicing through his shoulder. But pain had long since been an old friend, and Korrak had kept moving, kept cutting, turning their precision into panic.

  He did not fall. He did not falter.

  By the time the last few men tried to run, there were bodies piled at his feet, the ground slick with blood.

  Korrak let them go. Let them return to their masters. Let them bring word of what had happened.

  Let the merchant kings know he was coming.

  Aldric sat in his sprawling estate, drinking dark spiced wine, pretending he was not afraid.

  The marble floors were cool against his feet, the scent of burning incense thick in the air, meant to mask the stink of sweat that clung to his skin. He was not a man accustomed to fear, but tonight, the walls of his palace felt too thin, the flickering torches in the hall too dim.

  News had reached him of the failed ambush.

  Of butchered men, of crossbows useless against the storm of blades that had torn through them.

  Aldric had spent years building his empire on deception and treachery. He had outlived rivals, had crushed those who sought to stand against him. Korrak was no different, just another brute from the north who thought his rage meant something in the grand scheme of things.

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  Yet, deep down, beneath the layers of arrogance and false certainty, he knew better.

  He had seen the aftermath of what Korrak had done to his men. Had read the terrified accounts of mercenaries who had barely escaped, their minds shattered, their faces still streaked with the blood of their brothers.

  The barbarian was not a man.

  He was a force of nature.

  Aldric had tripled his guards, had hired the best swordsmen in the city, men who had once fought for kings, men who had won battles against armies. His estate had become a fortress, every entry point sealed, watchtowers lined with archers.

  It would be impossible to reach him.

  Which meant he did not expect the screaming to start.

  The first death came quietly.

  A guard, standing watch atop the eastern tower, his throat slit before he could even cry out. His body toppled over the edge, hitting the marble courtyard below with a sickening crunch.

  The second was messier.

  A sentry patrolling the garden, his torch snuffed out, a hand clamping over his mouth as a dagger was driven into his kidney, twisted, ripped free.

  By the time the third guard noticed something was wrong, it was already too late.

  Korrak was inside.

  He moved through the courtyard like a shadow wrapped in sinew and scars, his skin slick with sweat and blood. The southern heat had soaked through his body, but it did not slow him. If anything, it made the killing smoother, made the wetness of the blood blend with the sweat already on his skin.

  He did not fight like a soldier.

  He fought like a starving animal, a creature that only knew how to rip and tear.

  Guards rushed to stop him, but they had never fought anything like this before.

  Korrak’s axe bit into the first man’s skull, the impact shattering the bone like pottery. Another came at him with a spear—he caught the shaft, twisted it, and drove the point through the man’s open mouth, pinning him to a marble column.

  More came, more died.

  Limbs were severed. Faces caved in. Blood painted the walls.

  Aldric had spent his life sending men to die for him. Now he was trapped in his own palace, listening as they were slaughtered like animals.

  He ran.

  The merchant king barricaded himself in his chamber, throwing furniture against the doors, his fingers trembling as he tried to hold his dagger steady. The silk cushions, the golden goblets, the decadent displays of his wealth—they were meaningless now.

  All that mattered was the thing outside his door.

  Then—silence.

  Aldric held his breath. Sweat dripped down his spine.

  Then the door exploded inward.

  Korrak stepped through the wreckage, blood-drenched, his axe dripping onto the polished floor. His eyes burned in the torchlight, but he said nothing.

  Aldric threw the dagger.

  Korrak caught it in midair, his fingers closing around the blade like it was nothing more than a piece of fruit. He turned it over in his palm, looking down at it, then at Aldric.

  The merchant king whimpered.

  "You stole from me," Korrak said, his voice like distant thunder, low and heavy with something worse than rage.

  Aldric tried to beg, but Korrak had already moved.

  The first blow broke his ribs, the force sending him sprawling onto the floor. He tried to crawl, to reach for something—anything—but Korrak grabbed him by the hair, dragged him across the room, and slammed him face-first into the banquet table.

  The rich mahogany split from the impact.

  Aldric gasped, teeth scattering across the floor, mouth filling with blood and bile.

  "You don’t get to do this to me," Korrak growled, pressing a boot to Aldric’s chest, pinning him like an insect beneath his heel. "Not and live."

  Aldric wheezed, his broken mouth forming the words "please—"

  Korrak silenced him with steel.

  The knife punched into his stomach, slid deep, ripped upward. Aldric shook violently, his body convulsing as his own lifeblood spilled across his robes.

  Korrak ripped the blade free.

  And stabbed him again.

  And again.

  Until Aldric was nothing but torn silk and shredded flesh, a ruin of a man who had once thought himself untouchable.

  Korrak wiped the blood from his blade.

  One down.

  Two to go.

  By dawn, the city burned.

  By nightfall, Korrak was already moving again.

  Because debt was paid in blood.

  And he was there to collect.