The Mawborn did not like the warband.

  And the warband did not like the Mawborn.

  Which meant that for the next several days, Korrak had to listen to his men argue over whether they should kill the damned thing in its sleep.

  The beast was a problem.

  It had to be kept chained at all times—and those chains had to be reinforced with spells, because normal iron could only hold something that big and angry for so long. The mage had been enjoying himself far too much, weaving runes, talking to the creature in a language that made the air tremble.

  Korrak had no idea if the mage was actually controlling it or if the beast was just waiting for the right moment to snap his spine.

  Either way, it was someone else’s problem.

  Because Blackspire was getting closer.

  And there were other things to worry about.

  The march south took them through old lands, battle-worn and scarred from wars long before Korrak’s time.

  The hills were lined with the ruins of forgotten strongholds, their walls crumbled into jagged black teeth, the fields around them littered with the bones of men who had fought for banners that no longer mattered.

  The road was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Korrak didn’t trust quiet.

  And neither did his men.

  The first problem came on the second night.

  A scouting party didn’t come back.

  Five men, hard men, veterans who didn’t get lost and didn’t get ambushed easily.

  Gone.

  No bodies.

  No sound of struggle.

  Just gone.

  Korrak and Verrik rode out to investigate.

  What they found was unnatural.

  No blood.

  No broken ground, no sign of a fight.

  Just their tracks leading into a valley… and stopping.

  As if they had simply vanished into the air.

  Verrik crouched, running his hands over the dirt, sniffing the wind like a wolf sensing a trap.

  Then he stood and said, flatly, “Magic.”

  Korrak clenched his jaw.

  He hated magic.

  Which meant he hated this entire situation.

  By the time they got back to camp, the mage was already grinning.

  He was sitting by the fire, flipping through one of his books, waiting.

  He knew.

  Of course, he did.

  "You’re enjoying this," Korrak said, tossing his saddle aside.

  The mage shrugged. "It’s an interesting puzzle."

  Korrak narrowed his eyes.

  "Five of my men just disappeared."

  "Yes, yes, very tragic. But fascinating! The spellwork is subtle—no explosions, no screaming, just a soft fold in reality. It takes a delicate hand."

  Korrak stared at him.

  The mage sighed.

  "Fine. Yes. I’ll figure it out before it happens again. Probably."

  "Probably?"

  "Mostly."

  Korrak exhaled through his nose.

  If the mage hadn’t been so damned useful, Korrak would’ve put his head through a shield months ago.

  The next day, three more men went missing.

  They tied the mage to the back of a horse and forced him to ride ahead.

  For his own safety.

  Of course.

  The second problem came when they ran into the Pale Riders.

  A warband from the western wastes, pale-skinned nomads who fought on horseback and never spoke above a whisper.

  Korrak had crossed paths with them before.

  And they still owed him blood.

  They met at a fork in the road, the Pale Riders coming from the west, Korrak’s warband coming from the north.

  It was not a friendly encounter.

  Korrak’s men tightened their grips on their weapons.

  The Pale Riders did not draw theirs.

  Instead, their leader, a narrow-faced bastard with a braid down to his spine, simply watched Korrak with cold, knowing eyes.

  Then he smiled.

  "I hear you march on Blackspire," the man said.

  Korrak didn’t answer.

  The man’s smile widened.

  "I hear you have a… monster in chains."

  The beast snorted behind them, yanking at its bonds, making the ground tremble.

  The Pale Riders’ horses didn’t move.

  "Orvan will see you coming, Korrak," the man said, voice low and almost amused. "The Blackspire doesn’t fall to steel."

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  Korrak exhaled.

  "Then I’ll just have to break it open with my hands."

  The Pale Riders laughed.

  Softly.

  Unnervingly.

  Then, without another word, they rode off, vanishing into the mist before the sun had fully risen.

  Korrak spat into the dirt.

  "Damned horsemen."

  The mage, still tied to his saddle, sighed.

  "I don’t think they like you."

  Korrak grunted.

  "They don’t have to like me. They just have to keep breathing long enough for me to kill them later."

  The last problem came on the eve of battle.

  Blackspire was on the horizon, looming over the dead valley like a broken fang.

  They couldn’t go further without being seen.

  Which meant one more night of waiting.

  One more night of listening to the beast growl in its chains.

  One more night of Korrak sharpening his sword while the mage tried not to look too pleased with himself.

  "You’ll want to be careful tomorrow," the mage murmured, eyes gleaming in the dark.

  Korrak didn’t answer.

  "You’ll see things in Blackspire," the mage continued, "things that will make you question what’s real. That tower isn’t just a fortress, Korrak. It’s a tomb of knowledge. The stones remember."

  Korrak took a long drink of mead.

  "And they’ll remember you, too," the mage finished, voice low.

  Korrak wiped his mouth, set his cup down, and stretched.

  "Then I guess I’ll have to make a strong first impression."

  The war-camp settled into a heavy stillness as the sun dipped below the jagged cliffs. Fires burned low, warriors sat sharpening weapons, murmuring amongst themselves in low, grim voices.

  And at the heart of the camp, in a tent too small for the egos inside it, Korrak sat at the head of the war council.

  His men gathered around the broad wooden table, maps spread across its surface, weighted down by daggers, goblets, and one man’s missing gauntlet.

  The tower loomed in the distance, its shadow crawling over the valley like a slow-moving wound.

  Tomorrow, they would march on Blackspire.

  Tomorrow, they would see if this had all been worth the trouble.

  The mage, of course, had made himself comfortable.

  He lounged in one of the sturdier chairs, legs crossed, fingers drumming against the armrest, golden eyes flickering like torchlight.

  Korrak tried to ignore him.

  Instead, he focused on the gathered warriors—the men who would fight and bleed beside him come dawn.

  There was Jorik One-Hand, Verrik the Pale, Dren the Bastard, and others who had earned names through blood and survival.

  Men who had weathered storms, survived sieges, and carved their places in the world with steel and stubbornness.

  They all watched him now.

  Waiting.

  Listening.

  And so, Korrak spoke.

  "Blackspire isn’t like a castle," he said, voice low and even. "It wasn’t built for men. It was built for things older, things that didn’t trust walls but knew they’d need them eventually."

  His fingers traced the map, stopping at the rough sketch of the tower.

  "It has no keep. No central courtyard. Just a pillar of stone and magic, rising from the dead earth."

  Jorik snorted, arms folded.

  "So we burn it down."

  Korrak grunted.

  "If it was that easy, someone would have done it by now."

  "He's right," the mage interjected, finally sitting up straight. "The tower is laced with wards, some as old as the first kingdoms. Spells woven into the walls, into the stones beneath it. Fire won’t touch it. Siege weapons will crumble against its base. The only way in is through the gates."

  There was a long silence.

  Then Verrik spoke, his voice dry.

  "Alright. So we’re walking into a wizard’s tomb. Fantastic."

  The mage smiled.

  "More like storming a wizard’s tomb. But, yes, that is essentially the plan."

  Dren scratched at his chin.

  "And inside?"

  The mage’s smile didn’t waver.

  "Traps. Creatures. Curses. Possibly sentient staircases."

  "Sentient what?"

  "Don’t worry about it."

  Dren did not look reassured.

  Korrak exhaled sharply, rubbing at his temples.

  "If we can’t break the tower from the outside, then we take the front gate. We push through, we kill anything in our way, and we get to Orvan before he has a chance to do something clever."

  The men nodded.

  This, at least, was something they understood.

  Korrak turned to the mage.

  "You said there were weapons inside."

  The mage nodded.

  "Yes. Artifacts, spell-bound steel, relics of war. Things that haven’t been touched in centuries."

  "Enough to outfit my warriors?"

  "If you survive long enough to claim them, yes."

  Korrak looked at his men.

  They were already grinning.

  There was no greater motivation for a warrior than the promise of a better blade.

  They broke the plan into three groups.

  The first wave—Korrak’s vanguard. The strongest, the fastest, the ones who would take the brunt of the tower’s defenses and clear a path for the rest.

  The second wave—archers, support fighters, those who would move in once the walls were breached.

  The third wave—the siege team, led by the mage himself, bringing the Mawborn forward to break through whatever might still stand in their way.

  The goal was simple: Get in. Kill everything. Take what’s useful. Leave nothing but ruins behind.

  And if something unexpected happened?

  Adapt. Survive. Kill.

  That was the only plan that ever mattered.

  There was only one problem left.

  "Orvan will see us coming," Verrik muttered. "You said it yourself. That bastard’s been hiding in that tower for a long time. He’ll be ready."

  The mage nodded.

  "He will."

  Korrak rolled his shoulders.

  "Then we make sure whatever he’s prepared for isn’t enough."

  The mage arched a brow.

  "And how do you propose we do that?"

  Korrak stood, stretching, grabbing his sword.

  "We sleep. We eat. And then we kill him before he can finish his breakfast."

  The warriors laughed.

  But the mage?

  He just watched Korrak with those golden eyes, unreadable and amused.

  Then he leaned back in his chair, smirking.

  "Alright, Korrak. Let’s go wake a wizard

  Dawn came slow and cold, dragging itself over the horizon like an old wolf unwilling to rise.

  The war-camp stirred in its own time, warriors pulling themselves from furs, stretching stiff limbs, rolling shoulders sore from years of battle. The air was thick with the weight of what was coming—not nervousness, not fear, but something heavier.

  Something inevitable.

  They had fought sieges before.

  They had seen walls burn, gates splinter, men crushed under their own defenses.

  But this?

  This was different.

  Because this was a wizard’s tower.

  And wizards did not fight like men.

  Korrak woke before the sun, as he always did.

  He rose with a grunt, rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and ignored the dull ache of too many old wounds pulling at him.

  His men were already stirring.

  Some sat near the low-burning fires, silent, sharpening weapons that were already sharp.

  Some joked, drank, fought each other in lazy, half-hearted brawls—rituals more than real contests.

  Others simply sat alone, staring at nothing, as if preparing for something only they could see.

  Korrak walked through the camp, watching them.

  Feeling the weight of it all.

  This was his warband.

  These were his men.

  And soon, many of them would be dead.

  That was the way of things.

  It had always been the way of things.

  And it would not change now.

  Jorik One-Hand was oiling his axe, muttering to himself, whispering some old war-prayer that he barely believed in.

  Verrik the Pale was sitting with his back to a wagon, flipping a dagger over and over in one hand, staring at it like it had something to say.

  Dren the Bastard was snoring loudly under a pile of furs, unconcerned with the coming battle in the way only the truly reckless could be.

  Korrak let them be.

  Each man had his own way of preparing for death.

  None of it mattered once the swords came out.

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

  Not at first.

  Not until Korrak made his way toward the edge of the camp, past the last of the watchfires, where the ground sloped downward toward the valley.

  And there, standing alone, cloak billowing slightly in the wind, was the mage.

  Korrak crossed his arms, watching him.

  The mage didn’t turn, just kept staring toward Blackspire.

  "Do you ever sleep?" Korrak asked.

  The mage smirked. "Not when interesting things are about to happen."

  Korrak grunted.

  He stepped up beside him, following his gaze.

  The tower loomed in the distance, dark against the morning sky, a wound of black stone cutting into the light.

  Korrak had seen many fortresses.

  This one felt different.

  Like it was watching.

  Like it was waiting.

  "Last chance to turn back," the mage murmured, half-joking.

  Korrak scoffed.

  "You wouldn’t have come to me if you thought I’d turn back."

  The mage tilted his head, amused.

  "No," he admitted. "I wouldn’t have."

  A pause.

  Then:

  "What do you think we’ll find in there?"

  Korrak was silent for a moment.

  Then he shrugged.

  "Doesn’t matter."

  The mage grinned.

  "You always say that."

  Korrak turned, heading back toward camp.

  "Because it’s always true."

  The final hours before the march came and went quickly.

  Men finished their meals.

  Armor was strapped on.

  Weapons were inspected, knives tucked into boots, spare blades slung across backs.

  Some warriors painted their faces in ash and blood, muttering prayers to gods who had never answered them before and wouldn’t start now.

  Some stood in small groups, playing dice, gambling away whatever coin they had left, because it wouldn’t matter soon anyway.

  Some simply sat in silence, waiting.

  And then, finally, it was time.

  Korrak stood at the head of the warband, sword resting across his back, watching as his men gathered.

  The mage appeared beside him.

  "Well," he murmured. "Shall we?"

  Korrak took one last, slow breath.

  Then he nodded.

  And the warband moved.

  Not rushed.

  Not desperate.

  Just inevitable.

  Marching toward Blackspire.

  Toward war.

  Toward whatever awaited them inside.

  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.