The tavern smelled of sweat, blood, and bad decisions.

  It was the kind of place where a man could lose his coin, his teeth, and maybe his life, all before the first round had been finished. The floor was slick with spilled ale, the walls lined with men who looked like they’d crawled out of their own graves. The hearth blazed in the center, struggling against the northern cold, but its warmth barely touched the air.

  Korrak sat at the bar, arms crossed, watching the room like a wolf eyeing a herd of particularly stupid sheep.

  He hated places like this.

  They were loud. They stank.

  And most of all, they were full of people.

  But he was thirsty.

  And he had earned a drink.

  The bartender, a one-eyed brute with a nose that looked like it had been broken more times than it had ever worked properly, slammed a tankard in front of him.

  “House special,” the man grunted.

  Korrak lifted it, sniffed. It smelled like fermented horse piss and regret.

  “Strong,” Korrak muttered.

  The bartender grinned, showing too many missing teeth.

  “Aye.”

  Korrak took a deep swig, throat burning, stomach twisting as the drink hit him like a warhammer to the gut. He set the tankard down, exhaled sharply, and blinked away the tears in his eyes.

  One drink.

  Then he was gone.

  That was the plan.

  But then, someone behind him laughed.

  It was the kind of laugh Korrak recognized—a mocking, goading, you’re-not-as-tough-as-you-think-you-are laugh.

  Korrak turned.

  A group of mercenaries were gathered around a table, dice and tankards scattered across its surface. One of them, a thick-necked bastard with scars up both arms, grinned at him.

  “Didn’t think a man like you would struggle with a little drink,” he said, his voice thick with amusement.

  Korrak’s eyes narrowed.

  “I didn’t struggle.”

  The mercenary gestured to his tankard.

  “You winced.”

  “I didn’t wince.”

  “You winced.”

  Another mercenary, a younger one with too much confidence and not enough broken bones, leaned forward. “Bet you can’t outdrink us.”

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  Korrak scoffed.

  “I don’t play games.”

  The scarred man’s grin widened.

  “Probably for the best.” He took a slow, deliberate sip from his drink. “Wouldn’t want to lose, after all.”

  Korrak’s jaw tensed.

  He didn’t have time for this nonsense.

  He had fought warlords. He had slain beasts. He had stood at the edge of the abyss.

  But now, in this filthy tavern, surrounded by idiots, his greatest enemy had arrived.

  His own pride.

  Korrak grabbed his tankard, stood, and stalked over to the table.

  “I don’t lose,” he said.

  The mercenaries cheered.

  The first game was simple.

  Roll the dice. Match the number with the amount of gulps you had to drink. If you failed, you had to drink double.

  Korrak rolled a four.

  Not bad.

  He drank four deep gulps of something that definitely wasn’t just ale. His vision blurred slightly, his stomach grumbled in protest, but he slammed the tankard down, unshaken.

  The next mercenary rolled a six. He groaned, took his punishment, and stayed standing.

  The game continued.

  By the fourth round, Korrak was sweating.

  By the fifth, he had forgotten the rules.

  By the seventh, he was losing badly.

  “Barbarian’s slipping!” one of the mercenaries crowed.

  Korrak glared. His face was flushed, his hand shook slightly as he picked up his dice. He rolled.

  A two.

  Relief washed over him—until someone slapped his back hard enough to almost knock him out of his chair.

  “Doubles!”

  Korrak blinked.

  “What?”

  The mercenary who had slapped him grinned wide.

  “You rolled doubles! That means you drink, and then we all drink!”

  Korrak narrowed his eyes.

  “That wasn’t in the rules.”

  The scarred man shrugged.

  “It is now.”

  Korrak gritted his teeth and drank.

  The room tilted slightly.

  Maybe he was drunk.

  Maybe he was very drunk.

  A second game started.

  This one was worse.

  Something about slapping a knife into the table and trying to stab between your fingers faster than the man next to you.

  Korrak lost instantly.

  His reaction time was not great anymore.

  A third game.

  Someone had a wheel with numbers on it. They spun it. If it landed on an even number, you drank. If it landed on an odd number, you also drank.

  Korrak squinted.

  “This game is stupid.”

  The mercenary who had suggested it grinned.

  “Drink.”

  Korrak drank.

  By the time the fourth game started, he was belligerent.

  He accused people of cheating.

  No one was cheating.

  At one point, he tried to flip the table, but it was bolted to the floor. He almost fell over trying.

  Someone suggested arm wrestling.

  Korrak agreed immediately.

  He lost.

  Twice.

  Then he accused the mercenary of having suspiciously strong arms.

  By the time he finally stumbled away from the table, he was seeing double.

  The bartender laughed as he staggered toward the door, muttering curses under his breath.

  “Guess the barbarian’s not much of a drinker,” someone called.

  Korrak turned.

  Tried to say something clever.

  Instead, he squinted, swayed, and walked into the doorframe.

  The whole tavern roared with laughter.

  Korrak growled, shoved the door open, and stumbled into the freezing night.

  The cold hit him like a hammer.

  It was good.

  It cleared his head.

  Slightly.

  He took a deep breath of the crisp, frozen air.

  Then he took another step.

  And tripped over his own boots.

  The snow cushioned his fall.

  Mostly.

  He lay there for a moment, blinking up at the stars, the wind howling over him, his breath misting in the night air. His face was half-buried in the snow, but it was oddly comfortable.

  He would get up.

  Eventually.

  For now…

  The sky was nice.

  His head didn’t hurt as much when he wasn’t moving.

  His breath slowed.

  His body relaxed.

  Korrak closed his eyes.

  Let the snow bury him.

  Tomorrow, he’d be fine.

  He was always fine.