The Soldier of Valeris

Year 1031, Spring (the day Duncan reaches the Maiden's Prayer)

The world had narrowed to three things: the ragged sound of my own breathing, the thunder of boots behind me, and the certainty that I was about to die badly.¶

Not cleanly. Not heroically.¶

Badly.¶

The Razorclaw was gaining. I could hear it—that wet, clicking sound its throat made between breaths, like bone scraping on bone. Could smell it too: rotting meat and void-taint, the signature stench of things that had crawled through the Warlord's gate and refused to crawl back.¶

"SCATTER!" I roared at what was left of Harrow's Swords, the mercenary company stupid enough to hire me as tactical advisor. "FARM! REGROUP AT THE—"¶

The Razorclaw's claws raked across my back.¶

Leather parted. Skin opened. I stumbled, caught myself on a fence post, kept running.¶

Behind me, someone screamed. Then stopped screaming.¶

Seven left. Maybe six now.¶

The farm loomed ahead—burned-out manor house, sagging barn, fields trampled to mud. The town of Millhaven was a column of smoke three hundred yards behind us, its people dead or scattered. We'd been hired to "neutralize the raiding party."¶

We'd walked into a gods-damned Void remnant warband.¶

Seventeen creatures. Coordinated. Intelligent. The kind of leftovers from the Gate Wars that should have been cleansed years ago but instead had been festering in the wilderness, learning, adapting.¶

Harrow's Swords had numbered twenty-three this morning.¶

I hit the barn's shadow and risked a glance back.¶

The Razorclaw was forty feet away—all muscle and serrated bone, moving on six legs like a spider bred with a boar. Its eyes glowed that familiar sick purple. Void-touched. Still corrupted.¶

And behind it: three more shapes. Humanoid. Armed.¶

Fuck.¶

"BARN!" I shouted. "DEFENSIVE CIRCLE!"¶

A voice—Petra's, the archer who'd actually listened during my pre-battle briefing—called back: "SIX OF US LEFT, ADVISOR!"¶

Six. From twenty-three.¶

I rounded the barn's corner and nearly ran into Jorik, the dwarf shield-bearer who'd ignored every tactical suggestion I'd made until the ambush started. His shield was gone. His left arm hung useless. But he was alive, and he had a hand-axe.¶

"You were right," he gasped. Blood on his beard. "Should've… scouted the approach…"¶

"Save it." I grabbed his good arm, pulled him toward the others. "Circle formation. Wounded in the middle. We hold until—"¶

"Until what?" That was Sera, the Keelborn sell-sword. "Reinforcements? There aren't any. Town's dead. We're dead. We're just picking where."¶

The Razorclaw rounded the corner.¶

I looked at the six survivors—five, really, since Jorik could barely stand. Petra with her bow. Sera with paired short swords. Torvin, the quiet Vargr who'd been the only one to actually practice the defensive formations I'd drilled them on. Young Pell, sixteen and shaking. And Harrow himself, the company captain, face pale, rapier bloody.¶

"We're picking how," I said. "Not where."¶

The Razorclaw charged.¶

The Blink Chain

It should have ended there.¶

Should have been: monster hits the line, we break, it picks us off one by one while the other three Void-touched soldiers cut down anyone who runs.¶

But war taught me something the mercenary captains never learned: watch the details.¶

And I'd been watching.¶

One of the three humanoid shapes behind the Razorclaw wasn't running—it was blinking. Short-range teleportation. Five feet, ten feet, never more than fifteen. And every time it blinked, there was a flash of blue light and a sound—a sharp bark, almost like—¶

A dog.¶

No. Not almost.¶

The figure blinked again, this time appearing beside the Razorclaw. I got a clear look:¶

Corrupted Keelborn warrior. Heavy armor. Void-purple eyes. And in his right hand: a chain. Thick, barbed, glowing with the same sick purple light as his eyes.¶

At the end of the chain: a creature.¶

Four-legged, sleek, almost like a mastiff but wrong—shimmer to its outline, like it existed slightly out of phase with reality. Every time the Keelborn yanked the chain, the creature yelped in pain.¶

And they both blinked.¶

"Oh you clever bastard," I whispered.¶

"WHAT?" Harrow yelled.¶

"The dog! He's using the dog's natural blink to—"¶

The Keelborn yanked the chain.¶

Flash of blue.¶

They vanished.¶

"BEHIND!" Petra screamed.¶

I spun.¶

The Keelborn appeared fifteen feet behind our line, already swinging his axe at Pell's unprotected back.¶

But I'd seen him yank the chain. Had watched which direction he faced before the blink.¶

Had counted.¶

One. Two. Three. Four—¶

I lunged left, not toward where he appeared, but where his momentum would carry him as he swung.¶

My sword found his armpit—the gap in his plate—and punched through.¶

He made a sound like steam escaping. Looked down at the blade in his chest. Then at me.¶

"Impossible," he whispered in Void-corrupted Keelborn. "You… saw…"¶

"I counted," I said, and twisted.¶

He dropped.¶

The chain fell from his hand.¶

And the lemehound—because that's what it was, I could see it clearly now without the Void-corruption clouding my perception—yelped and scrabbled backward, chain dragging.¶

It looked at me with eyes that were blue, not purple.¶

Not corrupted. Enslaved.¶

"Easy," I said, kneeling slowly. The Razorclaw was closing fast—maybe ten seconds before it hit our line. "Easy. I'm going to—"¶

The dog blinked.¶

Appeared two feet closer.¶

Blinked again.¶

Right in front of me.¶

Up close, I could see the collar. Barbed. Glowing. Embedded in its neck so deep the skin had grown around it. Void-magic, the kind that controlled instead of corrupted.¶

"Hold still," I said.¶

Did I have time for this? No.¶

Did I do it anyway?¶

Yes.¶

Because I'd seen this before. The Void Gate Wars. Creatures enslaved, forced to fight, punished with pain for every moment of hesitation.¶

I gripped the collar. Felt the void-magic bite into my palms. Pulled.¶

The dog whimpered.¶

I pulled harder.¶

Metal screamed. The barbs tore free. Blood—mine and the dog's—spattered the ground.¶

The collar came off.¶

The dog blinked.¶

Vanished.¶

Gone.¶

"DUNCAN!" Sera screamed. "MOVE!"¶

The Razorclaw was there—claws raised, mouth open, close enough I could count its teeth.¶

I dove left.¶

Claws raked the ground where I'd been kneeling.¶

Rolled. Came up running.¶

"BARN!" I yelled. "OTHER SIDE! NOW!"¶

We ran.¶

The Giant and the Ogres

The Razorclaw didn't follow.¶

That should have been my first warning.¶

We rounded the barn's far side and I heard it before I saw it: the rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk of something heavy hitting flesh. The wet sounds of steel in meat. And underneath it all—laughter.¶

Not human laughter.¶

Ogre laughter.¶

I slid to a stop.¶

In the space between the barn and a collapsed grain silo, five Void-corrupted Ogres had someone cornered.¶

No—not someone.¶

A Giant.¶

Twelve feet tall if he was an inch, broad as a wagon across the shoulders, skin the grey of weathered stone. He wore the remnants of plate armor—Valerian military issue, I recognized the crest—and carried a warhammer that would take three normal men to lift.¶

And he was losing.¶

The Ogres had him surrounded. Not rushing. Not overwhelming. Coordinating. Taking turns.¶

One would feint from the left. The Giant would turn, raise his hammer.¶

Another would stab from the right—pike thrust, fast, pulled back before the Giant could counter.¶

Third Ogre would laugh and jab from behind.¶

They were bleeding him. Wearing him down. Playing with him.¶

And it was working. The Giant's movements were slowing. Too many wounds. Too much blood on the ground.¶

"We can't fight that," Harrow said. "Five Ogres plus whatever else is—"¶

"We don't fight," I said, scanning the battlefield. "We break it."¶

"What?"¶

"The pattern. We break the pattern."¶

My eyes caught on the lumber pile.¶

Twenty feet from the Ogres' position: a massive stack of timber. Logs cut for export, maybe twenty feet long and thick as a man's torso. Stacked eight high, secured with rope and iron straps.¶

Secured badly.¶

The merchant who'd owned this farm had cut corners. I could see it from here—only two retaining straps where there should have been four. And the pile was balanced on a slight slope, held in place by tension and prayer.¶

"Petra," I said. "When I move, shoot the Razorclaw if it comes around that corner."¶

"It's still—"¶

"It will. Torvin, Sera—when the Ogres break formation, hit them fast. Jorik, keep Pell alive."¶

"What are you going to do?" Harrow asked.¶

"Something stupid."¶

I ran.¶

Not toward the Ogres.¶

Toward the lumber pile.¶

An Ogre saw me. Grunted. Pointed.¶

Two of them broke from the circle, started toward me—massive, seven feet tall, all muscle and void-corruption, pikes raised.¶

I didn't slow.¶

Twenty feet from the pile.¶

Fifteen.¶

An Ogre threw its pike.¶

I twisted. The shaft passed six inches from my ribs.¶

Ten feet.¶

I could see the straps clearly now—old iron, rusted at the joins, under tension from the weight.¶

Five feet.¶

Drew my sword mid-stride.¶

Swung.¶

The first strap parted with a musical ping.¶

The logs shifted.¶

Groaned.¶

I hit the second strap with a two-handed overhead strike—all the strength I had left in muscles that were screaming, in a back that was bleeding, in hands that had pulled barbed collars off enslaved dogs when I should have been running.¶

The strap snapped.¶

The lumber pile moved.¶

Twenty logs. Twenty feet long. Tons of wood that had been held in place by tension alone.¶

They rolled.¶

Not slowly.¶

Like an avalanche.¶

The first Ogre in their path looked up. Saw what was coming.¶

Tried to run.¶

The logs hit it like the fist of an angry god.¶

Crunch.¶

It went down. Stayed down.¶

The other Ogres scattered—broke formation, survival instinct overriding whatever void-corruption tactics they'd been programmed with.¶

And the Giant—the massive, wounded, exhausted Giant who'd been on the edge of death five seconds ago—saw his opening.¶

Saw it and took it.¶

Korg's Dance

I'd seen a lot of warriors fight.¶

I'd fought beside a lot of warriors.¶

But I'd never seen anything like what the Giant did in the next fifteen seconds.¶

He moved.¶

Not like someone wounded. Not like someone twelve feet tall and carrying a hundred pounds of armor.¶

Like a dancer.¶

The warhammer came up in a rising arc that caught the nearest Ogre under the chin—lifted it off its feet, sent it flying backward into the barn wall hard enough to crack timber.¶

Didn't pause.¶

Pivoted—and for something that size, the grace of it was obscene—brought the hammer around in a horizontal sweep that took the second Ogre in the ribs.¶

I heard bones break from thirty feet away.¶

The Ogre staggered.¶

The Giant reversed his grip mid-swing, brought the hammer down on the Ogre's skull.¶

There was a wet sound.¶

The Ogre stopped being a problem.¶

Two left. Plus the one under the logs, still screaming.¶

The Giant started to spin.¶

He planted his feet—a stance I recognized from Dwarf fighting forms, low center of gravity, impossible to topple—and began to rotate. The warhammer extended like the spoke of a wheel, building momentum with each revolution.¶

Faster.¶

Faster.¶

The air hummed.¶

The first of the two remaining Ogres tried to duck under the swing.¶

The hammer caught it across the shoulders. Kept going. Took the creature's arm off at the elbow and sent the body cartwheeling across the farmyard.¶

The last Ogre had time to raise its pike.¶

The hammer hit the pike.¶

The pike exploded into splinters.¶

The hammer kept going.¶

Hit the Ogre.¶

There was a sound like a melon dropped from a great height.¶

The Giant stopped spinning.¶

The hammer came to rest.¶

Five Ogres.¶

Fifteen seconds.¶

Dead.¶

The Giant looked at me. Eyes the color of old iron. Face covered in scars and blood—some old, some fresh.¶

"You," he rumbled. Voice like stones grinding. "You dropped the logs."¶

"I dropped the logs," I confirmed.¶

"Good tactics." He spat blood. "Who are you?"¶

"Duncan. Tactical advisor to Harrow's Swords. You?"¶

"Korg." He leaned on his hammer like a cane. "Formerly of the Third Valerian Heavy Infantry. Currently unemployed."¶

"Unemployed how?"¶

"Honorably discharged after the Gate Wars. Took contracts where I could find them. Was escorting a merchant caravan when…" He gestured at the burning town. "This."¶

Behind me, I heard the Razorclaw scream.¶

Turned.¶

It was charging our position—done toying with whatever it had been doing, ready to finish what it started.¶

And behind it: the rest of the Void warband. Eight shapes. Moving fast.¶

"How many in your company?" Korg asked.¶

"Six counting me."¶

"Against nine?"¶

"Bad odds."¶

Korg hefted his hammer. Grinned—a terrible expression, all blood and broken teeth.¶

"I've had worse."¶

The Last Stand

We formed a line.¶

Me in the center. Korg to my right—wounded but standing, hammer ready. Sera and Torvin on the flanks. Petra behind us with her bow. Harrow and Jorik protecting Pell in the rear.¶

Seven against nine.¶

The Razorclaw hit first.¶

Korg met it.¶

I'd thought his hammer-work against the Ogres was impressive. This was artistry. He caught the Razorclaw mid-leap—full-body swing that connected with its thorax and sent it crashing into two of the corrupted soldiers behind it.¶

"LEFT!" I shouted.¶

Torvin was already moving—Vargr instincts, reading the flow of battle like I'd tried to teach them. His blade found the gap in a Void-touched Keelborn's armor. Twisted. Withdrew.¶

The Keelborn fell.¶

Sera engaged another—paired swords against a corrupted dwarf with an axe. She was good. Better than good. She flowed like water, redirected his strikes, found openings.¶

But there were eight of them.¶

A Void-corrupted Troll crashed into our right flank.¶

Korg turned to meet it.¶

Which left the center open.¶

Two Void soldiers—human-shaped but wrong, movements too precise, eyes too empty—came at me together.¶

No time to think.¶

Just react.¶

First blade I caught on my sword. Redirected—Nagasu, the flowing water form. Let his momentum carry him past me.¶

Second blade I didn't block.¶

Let it come.¶

Stepped into the strike instead of away—Irimi, entering the void, the space where the attack hasn't arrived yet but will be.¶

Felt the blade pass over my shoulder.¶

My sword found his throat.¶

He fell.¶

I spun.¶

The first soldier had recovered. Was raising his blade.¶

An arrow took him through the eye.¶

"GOOD SHOT!" I yelled.¶

"RUNNING LOW!" Petra yelled back.¶

The Razorclaw had recovered. Was circling for another charge.¶

Korg was locked in combat with the Troll—hammer against claws, neither giving ground.¶

Sera had killed the dwarf but taken a cut across her arm.¶

Torvin was holding three Void-soldiers at bay through pure speed and aggression.¶

We were winning.¶

Which is when the Warlord's lieutenant arrived.¶

The Gestalt Fragment

It didn't walk around the barn.¶

It formed in the middle of the battlefield.¶

One second: empty air.¶

Next second: presence.¶

Eight feet tall. Vaguely humanoid. Made of shadow and void-light and angles that didn't make sense. Where its head should be: three faces rotating slowly, each one wearing a different expression of hatred.¶

A Gestalt Fragment. A piece of the Warlord, sent to coordinate the warband.¶

"Oh fuck," Harrow whispered.¶

The Fragment raised one hand.¶

The Razorclaw stopped circling.¶

The Void-soldiers stopped attacking.¶

The Troll backed away from Korg.¶

They formed a line. Perfectly synchronized.¶

The Fragment's three faces smiled.¶

Then it spoke—voice like breaking glass, like children screaming, like the sound a star makes when it dies.¶

"PATTERN-SEER. WE KNOW YOU."¶

My blood went cold.¶

"YOU SAVED THE CORRUPTED. FREED THE ENSLAVED. BROKE OUR DESIGNS."¶

It pointed at me with a finger that had too many joints.¶

"WE HAVE WATCHED. WE HAVE LEARNED. WE KNOW YOUR PATTERNS TOO."¶

The Void-soldiers moved.¶

Not scattered. Not random.¶

In formation.¶

Perfect coordination. Reading my stance, my positioning, already adapting to counter what I'd do before I did it.¶

This was new.¶

This was bad.¶

The Fragment laughed.¶

"YOU TAUGHT THEM TO THINK. WE TAUGHT THEM TO THINK BETTER. NOW—"¶

A flash of blue light.¶

The Fragment's middle face exploded.¶

Phase Returns

The lemehound appeared on top of the Fragment's shoulders.¶

Jaws closed around what passed for the creature's throat.¶

Bit down.¶

Void-essence sprayed like oil.¶

The Fragment shrieked—all three mouths now, discordant harmony of agony.¶

Tried to grab the dog.¶

The dog blinked.¶

Appeared fifteen feet away. Crouched. Growled.¶

Then blinked again.¶

Hit the Fragment from behind.¶

The creature staggered.¶

And in that moment—that single instant of distraction—¶

I moved.¶

"WEDGE FORMATION!" I roared. "KORG CENTER! DRIVE THROUGH!"¶

We charged.¶

Not at the Fragment—it was collapsing, the dog ripping pieces off it with each blink-strike.¶

At the Void-soldiers.¶

They were distracted. Looking at their commander. Hesitating.¶

Pattern broken.¶

Korg hit them like a battering ram.¶

I went low, took out a knee, came up inside the guard of a Keelborn warrior.¶

Sera and Torvin hit the flanks—wolves on wounded prey.¶

Petra's arrows found throats and eyes.¶

Fifteen seconds.¶

That's all it took.¶

Fifteen seconds of chaos—beautiful, unpredictable, dissonant chaos—and the Void warband broke.¶

The survivors scattered.¶

The Razorclaw fled into the woods.¶

The Troll fell with three arrows in its skull and Korg's hammer through its chest.¶

And the Fragment—¶

The Fragment dissolved, its void-essence scattering like smoke, leaving behind only the sound of its screaming and a scorch mark on the ground.¶

The lemehound appeared at my feet.¶

Looked up at me with those impossible blue eyes.¶

Tail wagged. Once.¶

Then it vanished again.¶

Aftermath

We stood in the silence that followed slaughter.¶

Seven of us. Still breathing.¶

Harrow was sitting on the ground, hands shaking. "What… what was that?"¶

"Void Fragment," I said. "Command unit. Coordinates the lesser corrupted. They're rare. Thought they'd all been destroyed when the Gate collapsed."¶

"It knew you," Sera said. "Called you Pattern-Seer."¶

"It did."¶

"How?"¶

I looked at the scorch mark where the Fragment had died. At the scattered bodies. At the burning town in the distance.¶

"Because I've been doing this for six years," I said quietly. "Since the discharge. Taking contracts. Hunting Void remnants. Saving the ones that can be saved. Killing the ones that can't."¶

"And making enemies," Korg rumbled.¶

"And making enemies."¶

The lemehound appeared again. This time it stayed visible. Sat. Looked at me expectantly.¶

"You came back," I said.¶

It tilted its head.¶

"You didn't have to. I freed you. You could have run."¶

It blinked—not teleporting, just a normal dog-blink—and its tail wagged again.¶

"Huh," I said. "Alright then."¶

I looked at Korg. "You said you're unemployed?"¶

"Currently."¶

"How do you feel about regular work? Less pay than military contracts, but more… interesting."¶

The Giant studied me. "Interesting how?"¶

"The kind where we hunt things that shouldn't exist and occasionally get hunted back."¶

Korg's grin was terrifying. "I'm listening."¶

I looked at Harrow. At what was left of his company.¶

"Your contract's fulfilled," I said. "The town's lost, but the survivors will need escorts to the next settlement. Take them. Get paid. Find easier work."¶

"What about you?" Harrow asked.¶

I looked at the lemehound. At Korg. At the scorch mark.¶

"I'm going to Valeris," I said. "I've been putting something off. Time to stop wandering and start building."¶

"Building what?"¶

I thought about Alicia. About her offer. About the network she wanted to create—people who could see what was coming and wouldn't wait for the council to authorize action.¶

"Something permanent," I said. "Something that lasts."¶

The lemehound barked—sharp, clear, definitive.¶

"Yeah," I said, and reached down to scratch behind its ears. "Something like that."¶

I started walking.¶

Korg fell in beside me, hammer on his shoulder.¶

The dog blinked ahead, then back, then ahead again—scouting, clearing the path.¶

Behind us, Millhaven burned.¶

Ahead, Valeris waited.¶

And for the first time in six years, I felt like I was walking toward something instead of away.¶

The Gates of Valeris

The gates of Valeris rose before us like the ribs of some ancient stone beast—weathered granite arches that had stood for six hundred years, topped with the kingdom's sigil: three towers intertwined with oak leaves. Guard stations flanked the entrance, and a steady stream of merchants, travelers, and refugees flowed through the checkpoint in both directions.¶

We didn't blend in.¶

Korg drew stares the moment we came into view. Twelve feet of stone-skinned giant, carrying a warhammer that could double as a siege weapon, his armor scored and dented from the Millhaven fight. Blood still caked his knuckles—dried to rust-brown, but unmistakable.¶

Phase didn't help. The lemehound appeared and disappeared at random intervals, phasing in and out of visibility like a bad dream. One moment he'd be trotting beside me, the next he'd vanish mid-stride and reappear thirty feet ahead, tongue lolling, tail wagging.¶

Behind us: what was left of Harrow's Swords. Six mercenaries, down from twenty-three. They looked like they'd been dragged through a meat grinder—bandaged, limping, hollow-eyed. Petra still had an arrow lodged in her shoulder pauldron that she hadn't bothered to remove. "Trophy," she'd said when I offered to help. "Proof I'm too stubborn to die."¶

The gate guards watched us approach with the kind of careful neutrality that meant they were deciding whether to draw weapons or run.¶

"State your business," the senior guard said. Human, maybe forty, with the posture of someone who'd seen enough shit to not be impressed by much. But his hand rested on his sword hilt, and his eyes kept flicking to Korg.¶

"Passage into Valeris," I said. "Mercenary company returning from contract work."¶

"Contract work." His eyes swept over the wounded. Over Korg's blood-stained hammer. "What kind of contract leaves half your company dead?"¶

"The kind that involves Void remnants," I said flatly. "Millhaven. Town's gone. Survivors are scattered. We killed the warband, but it cost us."¶

The guard's expression shifted. Not quite sympathy, but recognition. Void remnants were still a problem this close to the old Gate Wars battlegrounds. Not common, but not unheard of.¶

"And the giant?" He gestured at Korg with his chin. "Stone Giants don't usually travel this far south."¶

"He killed five Ogres in fifteen seconds," I said. "Saved my life and everyone else's. You want to question his credentials, be my guest. But do it somewhere that isn't blocking the gate."¶

Korg rumbled something that might have been amusement. The guard looked up at him—way up—and apparently decided that arguing wasn't worth it.¶

"Entry tax is five silver per person. Giants count as three."¶

I paid. We passed through.¶

---

Valeris swallowed us whole.¶

The city sprawled across three hills like a drunk had spilled a bag of dice—buildings stacked on buildings, streets winding in patterns that made no geometric sense, market squares erupting at random intervals wherever someone had decided to set up shop. The smell hit me first: woodsmoke, horse dung, baking bread, sewage, incense from a dozen different temples. The noise came second—a wall of sound that never quite resolved into individual voices, just a constant roar of commerce and conversation and life.¶

And underneath it all, thrumming through the cobblestones like a second heartbeat: the pull.¶

I'd felt it for months now. A gentle tug, like fishing line hooked in my chest, always pointing toward Valeris. Not magical—I'd checked. Not a curse. Just… certainty. The kind of knowing that settles in your bones and refuses to leave.¶

This was where I needed to be.¶

I just didn't know why yet.¶

"You feel it too, don't you?" Korg's voice rumbled beside me. Not a question.¶

I glanced up at him. "Feel what?"¶

"The rightness." He gestured with one massive hand, taking in the chaotic sprawl of the city. "You've been walking toward this place for three months. Took contracts that brought you closer. Turned down work that would've sent you east. You think I didn't notice?"¶

I didn't answer. Didn't need to.¶

Korg grinned—a terrifying expression on a face that looked like it had been carved from cliff stone. "Good. Whatever you're building here, I want in. Been swinging a hammer for other people's causes my whole life. Time to find one worth the weight."¶

Phase barked—sharp, definitive—and blinked ahead toward a crossroads where the street split three ways. The mercenaries had already peeled off, heading toward the Mercenary Guild district to collect their payment. It was just the three of us now: man, giant, dog.¶

And that's when the sky screamed.¶

---

The eagle came out of nowhere.¶

One moment the sky was empty except for gulls and chimney smoke. The next, a shadow fell across the crossroads—wings wide enough to black out the sun, talons that could gut an ox. The bird dropped like a stone, pulling up at the last second with a crack of displaced air that made every head within fifty yards turn.¶

It landed on Korg's outstretched forearm with the precision of a trained raptor.¶

The giant hadn't moved. Hadn't flinched. Just held his arm out like he'd been expecting this, his expression shifting from surprise to something harder. Grimmer.¶

The eagle was enormous up close—golden-brown feathers tipped with white, eyes like polished amber, a beak that could crack bone. A leather pouch hung from its neck, secured with a cord that bore the sigil of Grondulm: a mountain under a hammer.¶

Korg's hand moved with surprising gentleness as he untied the cord. The eagle mantled its wings once, then settled, watching him with an intelligence that made my skin crawl. These weren't normal birds. They were bred for the Grondulm clans—messengers that could cross mountain ranges in hours, find their target across hundreds of miles.¶

The leather pouch opened with a soft snap. Korg pulled out a folded parchment, sealed with wax the color of old iron.¶

He broke the seal. Read.¶

And the color drained from his face—not literally, stone giants don't pale, but something shifted in his expression. A tightness around the eyes. A hardness in his jaw.¶

"What is it?" I asked quietly.¶

Korg didn't answer immediately. Just stared at the parchment like it had personally betrayed him. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. Scraped raw.¶

"My father." He swallowed. "King of Grondulm. He's… it's a draft. A summons." He looked at me, and for the first time since I'd met him, Korg looked uncertain. "My mother. She's sick. Fading."¶

The words hung in the air between us.¶

"I have to go," he said. Not a question. A statement. "Now. Today. If I leave within the hour, I can make Grondulm in under three weeks if I don't stop."¶

"Then you go," I said. Simple as that.¶

Korg shook his head. "Duncan, I said I wanted in. Whatever you're building here—"¶

"Will still be here when you get back." I cut him off. "Family first. Always. No debate."¶

The giant studied me for a long moment. Then nodded slowly.¶

"The Grondulm halls are in the northern mountains," he said. "A month's travel from here under normal circumstances. But if you ever need me—" He reached into his belt pouch, pulled out something small and metallic. Pressed it into my hand.¶

A ring. Thick iron band, carved with runes I didn't recognize. Warm to the touch, like it had been sitting in sunlight.¶

"Blood-bond token," Korg said. "Stone Giant tradition. You hold that, speak my name into it, I'll feel it. Won't matter how far away I am. I'll come." He met my eyes. "We fought together at Millhaven. Bled together. Saved each other's lives. In my clan's reckoning, that makes us brothers. And brothers answer the call."¶

I closed my fist around the ring. Felt the weight of it—not just metal, but obligation. Trust. The kind of bond you don't forge lightly.¶

"I'll hold onto it," I said. "And Korg? I hope your mother pulls through."¶

His expression softened. Not quite a smile, but close. "She's tougher than bedrock. Raised seven sons and outlasted three clan feuds. If anyone can beat this, it's her." He paused. "But I need to be there. Just in case."¶

"Then go. Fast as you can."¶

Korg nodded. Turned to leave. Then stopped, glancing back over his shoulder.¶

"Duncan? When you figure out what you're building here? Make it big. Make it worth the effort. Because when I come back—" He hefted his warhammer. "—I'm bringing this to the fight."¶

I grinned despite myself. "I'll make sure it's worth your time."¶

"And one more thing." Korg's voice dropped lower, serious. "Grondulm is open to you. If you ever need refuge, allies, a place to stand when the world's gone to shit—my father's halls will welcome you. Just say you're bloodbound to Korg Ironheart. They'll know."¶

"I'll remember," I said.¶

The eagle screeched once—sharp and final—then launched itself from Korg's arm with a thunder of wings. The giant watched it circle once, twice, then bank north toward the mountains.¶

"Safe travels, brother," I called after him.¶

Korg raised one massive fist in acknowledgment. Then he turned and began to run.¶

Not jogging. Not trotting. Full sprint. Twelve feet of stone giant moving at speeds that shouldn't be possible for something his size, each footfall shaking the cobblestones, merchants and citizens scattering like startled chickens. He hit the north gate at full speed, barely slowing as he crashed through the checkpoint—the guards wisely decided not to stop him—and then he was gone, disappearing into the northern road in a cloud of dust and startled shouting.¶

---

I stood alone at the crossroads.¶

Well. Not quite alone. Phase sat beside me, tongue lolling, tail thumping against the cobblestones. He looked up at me with those unsettling indigo eyes and barked once.¶

"Yeah," I said. "Just you and me now, huh?"¶

The dog blinked out of existence. Reappeared twenty feet down the western street. Looked back at me expectantly.¶

I checked the sun. Still early afternoon. Plenty of time to find lodging, get cleaned up, figure out my next move.¶

But the pull—that constant, nagging certainty—had shifted. Intensified. It wasn't pointing vaguely toward Valeris anymore. It was pointing \down that street\. The one Phase was waiting on.¶

"Alright," I said, more to myself than the dog. "Let's see where this goes."¶

I started walking.¶

Phase led me through a maze of side streets and narrow alleys, past market stalls selling everything from enchanted candles to questionable meat pies, under archways carved with sigils I didn't recognize, across a bridge that spanned a canal that smelled like death and poor municipal planning.¶

And then, rounding a corner into a small square, I saw it.¶

A tavern.¶

Two stories, timber-frame construction, painted sign swinging gently in the afternoon breeze. The sign showed a woman kneeling in prayer, hands clasped, face upturned. Simple. Elegant. Worn smooth by years of weather.¶

Underneath, in flowing script: "The Maiden's Prayer."¶

The pull in my chest stopped.¶

Not faded. Not diminished.¶

Just… complete. Like a compass needle finding true north and settling.¶

Phase sat down beside me. Tilted his head. Waited.¶

Phase had been patient long enough.¶

I felt him before I saw him — seventy pounds of lemehound pressing his skull up into my palm the moment my knee hit the cobblestones, tail going, making the sound that meant finally. I'd been promising him this since Millhaven.¶

The pack tipped. I grabbed for it. Too slow.¶

The leather pouch hit the stones and the tokens spilled. I watched them settle between the cobblestones without moving to collect them. Phase sniffed each one and looked at me.¶

"Give me a minute," I said.¶

I picked them up one at a time.¶

Kildrak's first — dark red-brown, heavier than it ever looked. Seventeen years in my pack and it still caught me off guard. She'd pressed it into my palm on the road to Ironpeak when I was fourteen and bleeding and thought I understood what a debt was. I hadn't yet.¶

Korg's ring next. Still warm. I turned it over, felt the rune-work rough under my thumb. Three hours since he'd hit the north gate at a dead sprint and I still hadn't decided how I felt about that.¶

The others. Rough iron, carved bone, metals I'd never learned the name of. Each one a different weight and warmth. I held them together in one fist and felt the aggregate of them — fourteen years of contracts and wars and moments where both of us had walked away changed.¶

My other hand had gone to the cord at my collar. I hadn't told it to.¶

I drew the moonsilver token out from under my shirt and held it next to the rest.¶

The street lanterns threw warm yellow light across the Titanite, the Prometheum, the others. They caught it the way metal catches light — reflected it back, gave it up, behaved.¶

The moonsilver didn't reflect anything. It held its own faint cool glow, indifferent to the lanterns, lit from somewhere they couldn't reach.¶

I sat with that for a moment.¶

Then something pulled taut in my chest — not a thought, not quite a feeling, more like a line going taut because there was weight on the other end. I'd felt it before. The High Road, arrow in my face, twelve men waiting for someone to tell them which way to move. The night Grok walked away into the dark and I stood watching until I couldn't see him anymore.¶

I'd never had a name for it. I'd never tried to find one.¶

I put the tokens away. Phase was already looking at the door of The Maiden's Prayer. The noise inside reached me before the smell did — voices, old wood, something frying in oil. Warm the way a room is warm when you've been outside too long.¶

I stood. Shouldered the pack.¶

"Yeah," I said. "Me too."¶

---

End of Chapter 0¶