The warband moved as one, a tide of warriors, iron and fire marching across the dead land toward Blackspire.

  The sky above was gray and dull, clouds hanging low, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and something else—something wrong.

  Korrak felt it before he saw it.

  A pressure in the air, like the weight of an unseen hand pressing against his skull.

  The kind of feeling that meant trouble.

  The kind of feeling that meant magic.

  He hated it.

  And then, just before they reached the first stretch of broken road leading to the tower, the screaming began.

  It started in the back ranks.

  A sharp, shrill cry—not the sound of battle, not the sound of steel meeting flesh, but something worse.

  Something unnatural.

  Korrak turned sharply, eyes scanning through the mass of warriors.

  And then he saw it.

  One of his men—a scout, a hard bastard who had survived more battles than most—was convulsing where he stood, hands clawing at his face.

  And then his own shadow tore him apart.

  Not a man stepping from his shadow.

  Not a beast lurking in it.

  His own damned shadow stretched up like living smoke and pulled his body inward, twisting, breaking, dragging him down until there was nothing left but a dark stain on the ground.

  Then the shadows began to move.

  Everywhere.

  All at once.

  The warband exploded into chaos.

  Men turned on their own feet, hacking wildly at the dark figures clawing their way free from the earth.

  Some fought shadows that were not there, screaming at things only they could see.

  Others were simply gone, their bodies collapsing into nothingness, like sand slipping through fingers.

  Korrak did not hesitate.

  He moved.

  Fast.

  His sword sang through the air, slicing into the nearest writhing thing, his mind already setting itself into the rhythm of battle.

  Cut. Move. Kill.

  Cut. Move. Kill.

  It did not matter what these things were.

  What mattered was that they could die.

  And if they could die, they would.

  The mage appeared beside him, eyes blazing, hands already carving sigils in the air.

  "Well," he said, almost conversationally, "this is unfortunate."

  Korrak drove his blade into another twisting mass of darkness, the thing shrieking like a dying animal as it dissolved.

  "You knew this would happen," Korrak growled.

  "Not exactly," the mage admitted, flinging a bolt of white-hot fire into a shadow rising behind them.

  The fire hit the thing square in its featureless head—and it did nothing.

  The mage frowned.

  "Oh," he said. "That’s not good."

  Korrak punched the shadow in the face.

  It flinched.

  Steel did nothing.

  Fire did nothing.

  But a solid, brute-force strike?

  That worked.

  Which meant these things weren’t spirits.

  They were something else.

  Korrak’s mind raced.

  A shadow was not a man.

  A shadow was a thing that followed.

  A thing that moved when you did.

  A thing that could be broken.

  So he did what no sane warrior would do.

  He let go of his sword.

  And started breaking them with his fists.

  The warband was holding, but barely.

  Korrak saw Dren the Bastard swinging wildly, blood covering his arms, his teeth bared in a wild grin as he smashed one of the creatures into the dirt.

  Jorik One-Hand had grabbed a torch and was using it like a club, beating back the shadows with raw firelight.

  Verrik the Pale was gone.

  Or worse.

  The mage was moving fast now, his hands weaving through the air, golden eyes flashing as he muttered words that hurt to hear.

  Then he clapped his hands together, and the world cracked.

  A ripple of blinding light surged outward, washing over the battlefield.

  For a moment, everything stood still.

  Then, one by one, the shadows howled—and retreated, slipping back into the ground like ink dissolving into water.

  The field was silent.

  Too silent.

  And Korrak knew this was only the beginning.

  The surviving warriors dragged themselves together, panting, staring at the scorched earth where their comrades had stood just moments before.

  Fifty men.

  Gone.

  Gone without a single blade touching them.

  Korrak wiped blood from his mouth, breathing slow, steady.

  The mage rubbed his temples.

  "That," the mage murmured, "was an opening move."

  Korrak spit into the dirt.

  "Then we hit back."

  The mage sighed.

  "Yes, I was afraid you’d say that."

  Blackspire stood waiting ahead, watching.

  And it was not done with them yet.

  But neither was Korrak.

  He picked up his sword, rolling his shoulders, and turned to his men.

  "On your feet," he growled.

  And like warriors who had known nothing but war their entire lives, they obeyed.

  Blackspire was ahead.

  And the battle had only just begun.

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  The dead were left where they had fallen.

  There was no time for burial rites, no time for mourning. They had been swallowed by the magic of the tower, their bodies crushed, devoured, or simply erased.

  Fifty men. Gone.

  The warband marched on.

  The road leading to Blackspire’s first gate was a jagged scar of broken stone, twisting up a steep incline toward the main walls.

  The walls themselves were blackened and cracked, as if they had been burned from the inside out. Not ruined, not weak—but waiting.

  The entrance was a great iron gate, its surface covered in carved runes that shifted when looked at too long. It loomed over them, monolithic and unmoving.

  And yet, there were no guards.

  No archers waiting above.

  No warriors on the battlements.

  Only the cold wind.

  And the tower, watching.

  Korrak did not trust empty things.

  "Where are they?" Verrik muttered, his grip tightening on his dagger.

  Jorik grunted. "Dead already, probably."

  "Or worse," Dren added. "This is a wizard’s keep, after all."

  The mage said nothing.

  He only watched the walls, his golden eyes flickering, tracking something only he could see.

  Korrak exhaled sharply.

  No more waiting.

  "Bring up the beast," he ordered.

  The Mawborn was unchained.

  The massive creature snarled as its bindings were undone, stretching its thick, muscle-corded limbs, its countless eyes narrowing in on the gate.

  It had been restless since they had left the pit, tugging at its chains, snapping at its handlers.

  Now, it sensed what was ahead.

  It wanted to kill.

  Korrak gave it what it wanted.

  "Break it down," he growled.

  The Mawborn bellowed, a sound that cracked the air like a thunderclap, then charged forward with earth-shaking steps.

  It hit the gate like a boulder crashing through ice.

  The runes on the metal flared, a sudden burst of blue-white light exploding outward. The force of the impact shook the ground.

  But the gate held.

  The Mawborn roared, enraged.

  It swung its colossal fists, smashing again, and again, and again. Each blow sent tremors through the valley.

  The warriors stood back, weapons ready, waiting.

  Then, with a final, shuddering crack—

  The gate shattered.

  The iron split apart like broken ribs, the runes flickering, failing, collapsing inward.

  The way was open.

  And that was when the screaming began.

  The moment the gate fell, the ground trembled.

  Not from the Mawborn.

  Not from anything visible.

  The shadows inside the gate moved.

  And then, something crawled out of them.

  It was human-shaped.

  At first.

  Then, as it stepped into the light, its face cracked apart, splitting down the middle like peeling flesh.

  More figures emerged behind it, dozens, then hundreds, too many.

  Some were armored.

  Some were wearing rags.

  Some were little more than bone and rotting flesh, their hands still gripping rusted weapons.

  And all of them had the same empty eyes.

  Blackspire’s dead had risen.

  The warband did not hesitate.

  They charged.

  The first clash was thunderous.

  Korrak led the vanguard, his greatsword carving through the first line of the horrors like a scythe through wheat.

  The things did not bleed.

  When he cut them down, they twitched, snarled, and tried to drag themselves forward, even with half their bodies missing.

  Jorik was tearing through them with his axe, each strike sending limbs flying, but the dead did not scream, did not react.

  Dren had taken up a warhammer, caving in skulls, sending bones shattering into dust.

  Verrik was already drenched in blackened ichor, fighting with a ferocity that was almost joyous.

  The Mawborn tore into the fray, smashing apart entire ranks of the dead, hurling bodies aside like dolls.

  The warband was pushing forward.

  But Blackspire was pushing back.

  Then the second wave came.

  The ground beneath them cracked, and suddenly, the dead were no longer alone.

  Something else crawled from the ruins.

  Something worse.

  Hunched figures, too tall, too thin, their limbs ending in jagged claws, their mouths filled with too many teeth.

  They moved like shadows, flickering, warping, their bodies twisting through space as if time itself could not hold them still.

  And then they attacked.

  Fast.

  Too fast.

  A warrior to Korrak’s left let out a choked cry—then he was gone.

  Another was ripped in half before he could even lift his shield.

  Korrak gritted his teeth.

  Then he roared:

  "Hold the line!"

  The battle turned savage.

  Steel met magic.

  Blades met unholy flesh.

  The Mawborn was a storm, smashing, bellowing, ripping creatures apart with its bare hands.

  The warband fought like demons, hacking, crushing, breaking.

  Korrak wielded his sword like an executioner, cutting down the horrors as fast as they came.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  They were outnumbered.

  They were being surrounded.

  And then, just when the battle seemed to be turning against them—

  The mage made his move.

  He raised his hands.

  And the air split open.

  A surge of raw, searing white fire exploded outward, washing over the battlefield in a blinding wave.

  The dead screamed.

  The horrors howled.

  And suddenly, half their enemies were burning, disintegrating into cinders.

  The tide shifted.

  The warband pressed forward.

  And finally, finally—

  They broke through.

  They staggered into the ruined courtyard, panting, covered in blood, ash, and filth.

  The dead lay still.

  The horrors were gone.

  The first battle was over.

  But the siege had only just begun.

  Korrak looked at the mage.

  The mage wiped blood from his mouth and grinned.

  "See?" he said, voice hoarse. "Told you we could get in."

  Korrak spat into the dirt, rolling his shoulders.

  "We’re not inside yet."

  The mage tilted his head. "No," he murmured, looking toward the great black doors leading into the tower itself.

  "But we’re close."

  The courtyard of Blackspire was quiet now.

  Not empty.

  Not safe.

  Just quiet.

  The bodies of the first wave of horrors and the dead lay strewn across the broken stones, twisted and unmoving. Some of the corpses still twitched occasionally, their ruined bodies reacting to the magic that had animated them.

  But they were dead.

  For now.

  Korrak knew better than to trust still things in places like this.

  His warband had survived.

  Not all of them.

  Some lay among the dead, their bodies mutilated, their armor cracked, their weapons still clenched in lifeless hands.

  Others were breathing, but barely, leaning against the blackened walls, gasping, dripping with blood—some of it theirs, most of it not.

  They had pushed through the first layer of Blackspire’s defenses.

  But it had cost them.

  And it was only the beginning.

  Korrak took a slow breath.

  Then he turned, scanning the remnants of his warband.

  Jorik One-Hand was leaning on his axe, his breath heavy, his one good hand gripping the hilt so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

  Dren the Bastard was wiping gore from his hammer, muttering something under his breath, his usual smirk gone.

  Verrik the Pale was gone.

  Probably dead.

  Or worse.

  The other warriors stood in small clusters, checking wounds, retrieving weapons from the corpses of the fallen.

  They were alive.

  But they had seen things now.

  And they knew.

  Blackspire was not just a fortress.

  It was a living thing.

  And it was watching them.

  Korrak turned to the mage.

  The bastard was grinning, of course.

  His cloak was burned in places, blood smeared across his face, but his golden eyes still gleamed with amusement.

  "Well," he said, voice rough, "that could have gone worse."

  Korrak grunted.

  The mage smirked.

  Then, after a moment, his expression shifted.

  He tilted his head, eyes narrowing.

  "Do you feel that?" he muttered.

  Korrak did.

  It was subtle.

  A feeling just beneath the skin.

  Like standing too close to a fire without feeling the heat.

  Like hearing a whisper, but not knowing the words.

  Like being watched.

  The tower was waiting.

  And Korrak did not trust waiting things.

  "How many men are still standing?" Korrak asked, turning back to the warriors.

  Jorik spat into the dirt.

  "Less than half."

  "More than enough," Dren grunted.

  Korrak nodded.

  Then he turned back to the great doors of Blackspire.

  They were tall, thick, made of the same strange black stone as the rest of the tower.

  They had no handles.

  No locks.

  No seams.

  Just darkness.

  Waiting.

  The mage exhaled sharply.

  "Orvan’s waiting for us," he murmured.

  Korrak already knew that.

  He stepped forward, gripping the edge of the doors.

  Then, without a word, he pushed.

  The doors opened.

  Not with force.

  Not with struggle.

  They simply moved.

  As if they had been expecting him.

  Korrak took a slow breath.

  Then he stepped inside.

  The interior of Blackspire was wrong.

  The moment they entered, the air changed.

  It was thicker, heavier, colder.

  Not the cold of winter.

  Not the cold of death.

  Something else.

  Something unnatural.

  The walls were too smooth, the floors too polished, reflecting the flickering torchlight like rippling water.

  There was no dust.

  No decay.

  Only silence.

  And yet, Korrak could feel it.

  The tower was alive.

  And it was listening.

  The warband moved cautiously.

  Weapons drawn, shields raised, eyes scanning every inch of the dimly lit corridors.

  The hallway stretched far longer than it should have.

  They had entered a fortress.

  But the inside felt like a tomb.

  The mage ran his fingers along the wall.

  "Old magic," he murmured. "Older than Orvan. Older than the first kings. This place… it was never meant for men."

  Korrak grunted.

  He did not care what the tower was meant for.

  He only cared about what needed killing.

  The further they walked, the more wrong it became.

  The walls shifted when they weren’t looking.

  The torches flickered in patterns that didn’t match the movement of the air.

  And the shadows—

  The shadows were moving again.

  But this time, they weren’t attacking.

  They were following.

  Jorik muttered a curse.

  "This place is cursed," he spat.

  Korrak did not argue.

  The warband stopped at a fork in the corridor.

  Three paths.

  Each one leading deeper.

  Each one waiting.

  Dren exhaled.

  "Which way?"

  Korrak looked to the mage.

  The mage looked at the paths.

  Then he frowned.

  "That’s… not right," he murmured.

  Korrak narrowed his eyes.

  "What?"

  The mage tilted his head, golden eyes flickering.

  "There should only be two."

  Korrak said nothing.

  Then, slowly, he turned.

  And saw a fourth hallway.

  It hadn’t been there before.

  It shouldn’t have been there at all.

  It was just there now.

  Waiting.

  Watching.

  Like the tower itself was watching.

  The warband stood silent for a long moment.

  Then Korrak exhaled.

  "Keep moving," he muttered.

  And, without another word, he led them forward.

  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.