The temple was falling.

  Stone splintered and groaned as cracks ran through the ancient foundation. The sigils carved into the walls—once symbols of devotion—shriveled and blackened, their magic failing against the force that now clawed its way free.

  Korrak stood at the heart of the ruin, the Gjallarbrand burning in his grip. The blade thrummed with ancient power, its fire casting long, flickering shadows against the crumbling walls. The light barely reached the edges of the vast chamber, where darkness coiled and breathed like a living thing.

  And from the pit beneath the altar, the abyss rose.

  It had no shape, no single form.

  It was smoke, fire, bone, and endless eyes.

  Its limbs shifted wildly, claws becoming tendrils, tendrils becoming fangs, fangs splitting open into mouths that whispered in voices not meant for mortal ears. It had no name.

  Because no name could contain it.

  And Velros had set it free.

  Korrak barely had time to move before the thing struck.

  A limb of writhing void lashed toward him, too fast, too massive. He twisted aside, his boots skidding across the fractured stone as the tendril slammed down where he had stood moments before, pulverizing the ground into dust.

  He exhaled sharply.

  The abyss was not just a beast.

  It was a force.

  It did not fight like men, like warlords, like the creatures he had slain in the wastes. It moved like the shifting tides, breaking and reforming, never truly taking damage.

  It did not bleed.

  It did not die.

  Not unless he could find a way to end it.

  The abyss screamed, the sound splitting the air like a jagged wound, a noise so deep and raw it sent a spike of pain through Korrak’s skull.

  The temple buckled.

  Columns collapsed in plumes of dust and debris. Chunks of ceiling plummeted into the abyss, vanishing into its endless dark.

  And through the chaos, Rylana staggered to her feet.

  She was bleeding now.

  The elegant, untouchable sorceress from before was gone—her black silks were tattered, her golden eyes no longer glowing with the same knowing arrogance.

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  She pressed a hand to her side, blood leaking between her fingers.

  She was weaker now.

  But she was smiling.

  Korrak’s grip on his sword tightened.

  "You think this is funny?" he growled.

  Rylana let out a breathless laugh, pushing her hair back from her face. "A little." She winced, glancing at the abyss as its shifting form spread outward, hungry. "You truly don’t understand what you’ve done, do you?"

  Korrak’s knuckles whitened on the hilt. "I killed Velros’s pet."

  Rylana’s smile widened.

  And then, softly:

  "No, Korrak. You fed it."

  A chill rippled down his spine.

  The abyss lurched.

  It was growing.

  The more it consumed—the temple, the stones, the ancient magic woven into Helm’s Reach—the larger it became.

  Velros had been trying to awaken it fully.

  And now, because of Korrak, it was free.

  The Gjallarbrand burned hotter in his grip.

  The voices of his ancestors had grown louder, their whispers pressing against the edges of his mind.

  End it.

  Burn it away.

  But how?

  The abyss was not flesh and blood.

  It was hunger, unmade.

  And yet…

  Korrak clenched his jaw. He didn’t need to understand it.

  He only needed to kill it.

  He moved.

  He charged at the abyss, Gjallarbrand raised high. The blade’s fire roared, its light cutting through the blackness, the steel cleaving into one of the shifting tendrils.

  The abyss screamed.

  The wound glowed white-hot, splitting open like flesh burned raw—but it did not bleed.

  Instead, the wound sealed itself almost instantly. The black tendrils folded back in, reforging, remaking themselves.

  Korrak gritted his teeth.

  It wasn’t working.

  The thing would not die.

  Not like this.

  The abyss lashed back, and Korrak barely leapt away in time, rolling across the broken stone as another limb of shifting darkness slammed into the floor, splitting it apart with a force that shook the entire temple.

  His vision blurred.

  His ribs ached from the fight with Gorthak. His muscles burned. He had spent everything getting here.

  And now he was losing.

  He was drowning.

  The abyss knew it.

  It was pulling him in.

  Korrak dug his heels into the stone, gripping the Gjallarbrand tighter, forcing himself to rise.

  Not yet.

  Not like this.

  A soft sound behind him.

  A footstep.

  Then—Rylana’s voice, closer now.

  "You feel it, don’t you?" she murmured.

  Korrak turned, eyes burning with rage.

  Rylana stood barely a foot away, watching him like a wolf watches something bleeding in the snow.

  He moved before she could react—his hand shooting out, seizing her by the collar of her torn gown, dragging her forward.

  She let out a sharp breath but did not struggle.

  Her golden eyes were steady, even as his grip tightened.

  "Tell me how to kill it," he snarled.

  She exhaled, tilting her head. "And what if I don’t?"

  The Gjallarbrand pressed against her throat.

  Rylana smiled faintly, but there was pain in her features now. She knew he would do it.

  She knew he had no mercy left to give.

  "The abyss is not alive, Korrak," she said softly. "It is a hunger. A wound."

  Her breath hitched slightly, her voice quieter.

  "And Velros made it a part of this world."

  Korrak’s grip did not loosen.

  She licked her lips, inhaling deeply. Then—quietly:

  "The only way to kill it is to cut it from reality itself."

  Korrak frowned. "What does that mean?"

  She let out a soft, breathless chuckle. "It means your sword alone won’t be enough, barbarian."

  He hated her.

  He hated the way she smiled, the way she always spoke in riddles, in half-truths, in words meant to twist themselves into his thoughts.

  But she was right.

  Korrak looked back at the abyss.

  It had fully unfurled now, its tendrils reaching toward the sky, its many mouths silent, waiting.

  It was watching him.

  Waiting for him to fail.

  Korrak let go of Rylana.

  And without another word, he turned toward the ruin’s exit.

  She coughed, rubbing at her throat. "Running, are we?"

  "No," Korrak said, voice like stone.

  His boots crushed the broken debris beneath him as he strode toward the collapsed gates.

  "I’m going to Velros."

  And then he was gone, into the frozen wastes.

  The abyss stirred behind him.

  And it would not stop growing.