《Korrak the barbarian》 The Hunt in Eldrun Korrak¡¯s boots crunched through the brittle frost, leaving deep imprints in the snow-packed road as he descended into the ruins of Eldrun. The air was thick with the stink of charred wood, frozen rot, and something worse¡ªthe bitter scent of old sorcery. The village was dead. It had not been empty long¡ªperhaps a fortnight since Velros¡¯s magic had peeled the life from these streets. Once, Eldrun had been a place of trade, its artisans renowned for carving statues of the old gods from the black stone of the Cairn Peaks. But no longer. Now, the carved figures that had once stood proudly at the town gates had melted into unnatural shapes, their faces contorted in silent, eternal screams. Even the gods themselves had not been spared. Korrak exhaled, watching his breath curl into the night air. Velros had done this. And Velros had something that belonged to him. The Gjallarbrand¡ªhis birthright, his ancestors'' sword. It had been lost to his bloodline for generations, locked away in temples, stolen by kings, hidden in the vaults of cowards. Until Velros took it. Not for greed. Not for battle. But for something worse. For ritual. Korrak had followed the warlock¡¯s trail across a dying land, through villages left in ruin, fields salted by unnatural fire, rivers turned black with decay. And at every turn, the signs were the same. The bones of the dead twisted, stretched, reshaped as if their bodies had tried to flee from their own flesh. But here, in Eldrun, something was different. The bodies had not been claimed by the abyss. They had been left as warnings. Korrak stepped over the frozen husk of a man who had died on his knees, hands clasped in prayer. His mouth was sewn shut with thin strands of his own sinew. His eyes had been plucked from his skull. A chill¡ªnot from the cold¡ªsettled into Korrak¡¯s bones.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Velros¡¯s magic did not just kill. It mocked. He tightened his grip on his sword¡¯s hilt and pressed on. The inn stood at the heart of Eldrun, a blackened husk where warmth and ale had once flowed freely. Its sign¡ªa carving of a boar in mid-charge¡ªwas half-melted, its wooden surface twisted into a grotesque face, its tusks elongated like fangs. Something waited inside. Korrak felt it before he saw it. A pressure in the air. Like standing too close to the edge of a crumbling cliff, feeling the weight of the fall pull at his body. He pushed the door open. The stench hit him first. The smell of stale blood, old sweat, and the faint, sickly sweetness of something rotting in the walls. The hearth was cold. The tables overturned. A dark stain marred the wooden floor where someone had died in violence. And in the farthest corner, beneath the lingering shadows, a man sat alone. He was wrapped in layers of stained wool, his frame too thin, his fingers twitching against the rim of his wooden cup. His **shadow stretched wrong¡ªtoo long, too thick, curling against the corners of the room like something waiting to be **let free. Korrak stepped forward. The man did not look up. But the shadow flinched. Korrak did not reach for his sword. Not yet. He did not need to. His presence alone was enough to shift the air in the room, thickening the silence, weighing it down like a blade pressed against the man¡¯s throat. Finally, the man raised his gaze. His eyes were too bright, too wide. Fear coiled behind them, but there was something else, too. Amusement. ¡°You came,¡± the man murmured. His voice was cracked, dry, like something long buried beneath the earth. Korrak lowered himself into the chair across from him. He did not blink. ¡°You serve Velros.¡± A slow, deliberate sip of ale. The man¡¯s lips twitched. ¡°Don¡¯t we all?¡± Korrak ignored the game. ¡°Where is he?¡± The man exhaled through his nose, fingers drumming against the table. The shadows twitched. ¡°North,¡± he said finally. ¡°Past the ruins of Helm¡¯s Reach.¡± The answer was too easy. Too quick. A lie, or at least half a truth. Korrak let the silence stretch. He leaned forward, the weight of his stare pressing into the man¡¯s chest like a knife. The fingers stopped twitching. The man swallowed. His eyes darted toward the door, toward the night beyond. As if something was watching from the dark. Then, his voice lower now: ¡°He¡¯s looking for something beneath the temple.¡± Korrak¡¯s muscles tensed. The Gjallarbrand. He knew, then, that Velros was not simply hiding it. He was using it. And if the warlock had finally found the sword¡¯s true purpose¡­ There was no more time. Korrak stood. The chair creaked under the sudden shift in weight. The man flinched, the shadows curling tighter around him. ¡°If you lied,¡± Korrak said, voice cold as the frost outside, ¡°I¡¯ll come back for you.¡± The man¡¯s lips twitched again. Not quite a smile. Not quite fear. ¡°Then I hope you die at Helm¡¯s Reach, barbarian.¡± Korrak turned and stepped out into the night, his silhouette swallowed by the dark. The wind howled, carrying the whispers of the Whispering Wood beyond, where twisted trees waited, and things older than men still lingered. He was close now. The Gjallarbrand was waiting. And Korrak would kill anyone who stood in his way. The Beast of Helm鈥檚 Reach The Whispering Wood was alive. Not with birds or the scuttling of night creatures¡ªthose things had long since fled. What remained was something older, something woven into the bones of the trees themselves. They spoke without voices, shifting, creaking, whispering in a language lost to men. Korrak moved through the gnarled forest, his breath steady, his sword strapped to his back. The air stank of magic¡ªVelros¡¯s magic. It clung to the trees, to the roots that clawed out of the frozen earth like grasping fingers. He stepped over bones half-swallowed by frost, their shapes twisted, elongated. Some were human. Some had been human once. The path to Helm¡¯s Reach was clear. And something was waiting.
The ruins loomed at the base of the Cairn Peaks, blackened stone half-buried in frost. Once, this had been a temple. A place where men had prayed to gods that no longer listened. Now it was a graveyard, a monument to Velros¡¯s corruption. And at its gates, Gorthak stood waiting. Korrak had heard his name whispered across dying villages. A beast of a man. A thing that killed without joy, without cruelty¡ªjust the quiet, methodical precision of something that had been made for it. Gorthak was massive, taller than any man should be, his body wrapped in thick furs and dried leathers, stitched together from the skins of things he had torn apart. His head was shaved, the scalp marred by ritual scars, some fresh, some so old they had become part of the landscape of his flesh. He grinned at the sight of Korrak, revealing yellowed, uneven teeth. ¡°They said you¡¯d come,¡± Gorthak rumbled. His voice was like distant thunder, a slow roll through the dead air. Korrak did not speak. There was nothing to say. The wind howled between them. Then Gorthak dropped his furs, rolling his massive shoulders. He was not armed. Because he didn¡¯t need to be. Gorthak did not kill with steel.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. He killed with his hands.
The beast moved first. He closed the distance with terrifying speed, his feet pounding against the frost-covered stone. The ground shook beneath his weight. Korrak did not retreat. He sidestepped at the last moment, Gorthak¡¯s massive hands swiping just inches from his throat. Too close. Korrak twisted, driving his sword toward the beast¡¯s ribs¡ª Gorthak caught the blade. With his bare hand. Korrak had seen monsters shrug off steel before. But never a man. The beast¡¯s fingers closed around the blade, blood welling from his palm, but his grin never wavered. His grip tightened. Then he wrenched the sword from Korrak¡¯s grasp. Korrak barely had time to react before a fist like a battering ram slammed into his ribs. He felt something crack. He was airborne before he realized what had happened. His body slammed against a broken pillar, the impact sending shards of old stone and ice flying. Pain roared through his chest. But pain was nothing new. Gorthak laughed. The barbarian rose.
They clashed again. Korrak fought like a storm, his fists driving into Gorthak¡¯s ribs, elbows striking for weak points. He was smaller, but faster. But Gorthak¡­ Gorthak did not feel pain. Every wound Korrak inflicted was ignored, the beast¡¯s movements never faltering. He grabbed Korrak mid-strike, lifted him off the ground like a child¡ª And slammed him into the earth. Korrak felt something snap. The world tilted. His breath hissed between his teeth, blood pooling in his mouth. Gorthak loomed over him, casting a shadow beneath the black sky. The beast grinned. ¡°No one has ever bested me,¡± he murmured. ¡°Not kings. Not warlords.¡± He leaned down, his breath reeking of meat and rot. ¡°And certainly not you.¡± He wrapped his hands around Korrak¡¯s throat. And began to squeeze.
Darkness closed in. Korrak¡¯s fingers scrabbled for anything¡ª And found Gorthak¡¯s dagger. The beast¡¯s own weapon, still strapped to his side. Korrak¡¯s fingers closed around the hilt. And plunged it deep into Gorthak¡¯s throat. For the first time, the beast hesitated. His grip loosened. Korrak did not. He wrenched the dagger sideways, tearing through muscle, flesh, artery. Blood gushed, black in the moonlight. Gorthak staggered. Korrak forced himself up, ignoring the screaming in his ribs. He seized his own sword from where it had fallen. Gorthak reached for him. Korrak swung. The blade took the beast¡¯s head. Gorthak¡¯s body swayed. Then collapsed. The wind howled. Silence.
Korrak stood over the corpse, his breath ragged. His body screamed with pain. But he did not fall. Not yet. His eyes lifted to the entrance of Helm¡¯s Reach. A ruined temple. A burial ground for gods. And inside, something waited. Korrak knew now that Velros had accounted for this. Gorthak had not been meant to kill him. He had been meant to weaken him. Because inside¡­ Rylana was waiting. And she would not fight him with strength. She would fight him with something far worse. The Blade and the Temptress Korrak passed through the shattered archway of Helm¡¯s Reach, leaving Gorthak¡¯s corpse behind him. The wind had already begun burying the beast in frost, as if the land itself was eager to forget him. But Korrak would not forget. His body was broken, ribs screaming with every breath, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. His fingers still ached from where Gorthak had nearly crushed the life from him. And yet, he pressed on. Pain was nothing. Pain was a companion. He had come too far, killed too many, to stop now. Because inside these ruins, beyond these broken walls, lay the reason for it all. The Gjallarbrand. His ancestors'' sword. His bloodline¡¯s birthright. And the weapon that Velros had stolen. The warlock had been searching for something buried beneath this temple, something ancient. Now, Korrak knew what it was. The Gjallarbrand was not just a blade. It was a key. And if Velros had it¡­ Then the world was already one step closer to ruin. Korrak stepped into the temple¡¯s depths. And she was waiting for him.
The chamber was wrong. Not in the way that old ruins usually were. Not with the scent of dust and forgotten stone. This place still breathed. The torches lining the walls burned with pale, cold flames, casting shadows that moved too slowly across the carved walls. The air was thick with something cloying, intoxicating. Incense. Myrrh. And something richer. Something like honey and blood. She stood at the center of the room, where an altar of obsidian had been raised, etched with runes that glowed faintly with old magic. She was not armored. She did not need to be. Instead, she wore a gown as black as the void, the sheer fabric flowing over the curve of her body, clinging just enough to hint at the pale, untouched skin beneath. Her hair was midnight silk, cascading over one shoulder in loose waves.Stolen story; please report. And her eyes¡­ Molten gold. Burning. Watching. She was the most dangerous thing Korrak had ever seen. And he had seen monsters. His fingers curled instinctively around his sword hilt, but he did not draw. Not yet. She smiled. Slow. Knowing. "You¡¯ve come far, Korrak," she purred, her voice rolling through the chamber like warm wine. "I knew you would." He stepped forward, his boots scraping against the stone. "Get out of my way," he said, voice low, rough as cut stone. She exhaled, amused, tilting her head. "Is that all I am to you? A mere obstacle?" Korrak ignored the bait. His gaze flicked to the altar. And there it was. The Gjallarbrand. The sword lay across the black stone, its edge gleaming despite the lack of light. Even from across the chamber, he could feel it. The power humming in its steel. The weight of his ancestors in its grip. It was waiting. It had been waiting for him. But Rylana did not step aside. She took one step closer, moving with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator. Her perfume filled his lungs, thick and heavy, laced with something unnatural. Magic. Her lips curved again. "It calls to you, doesn¡¯t it?" she murmured. Korrak did not answer. She circled him like a shadow in silk. "You have spent your life hunting," she mused, her golden eyes gleaming. "Fighting. Killing. Always searching for something." He exhaled through his nose. "I found it." "Did you?" She was closer now. Close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body, the brush of fabric against his arm. Her fingers drifted upward, tracing the air just inches from his skin. Not touching. But close enough to make him feel it. "You think the Gjallarbrand is just a weapon," she whispered. "But it¡¯s more. It always has been." His jaw tightened. "More than a blade. More than steel. It is a conduit. A key. A piece of something greater than you." He forced himself to breathe evenly. "Take it," she whispered, tilting her head toward the altar. "It¡¯s yours by blood, by right." Korrak hesitated. For the first time since stepping into this temple, since setting foot in Eldrun, he hesitated. It called to him. The sword. His ancestors. His blood. The whispers in his mind grew louder. Take it. Wield it. Become what you were meant to be. But beneath those whispers, beneath the hunger, something was wrong. Rylana saw it in his face. And she smiled. "Ah," she breathed, eyes half-lidded. "You feel it, don¡¯t you?" His breath was heavier now. The air was thick. The perfume, the warmth, the whispering in his skull. It was pressing down on him. She leaned in, her lips just inches from his ear. "You don¡¯t have to fight anymore," she whispered. "You don¡¯t have to hunt. You don¡¯t have to bleed for a world that will forget your name." Her voice wrapped around his thoughts like silk. "I could give you peace, Korrak." He could see it. A world without war. Without blood. Without the hunger that drove him forward, that left him cold in the long nights, that had taken everything from him. No more battles. No more ghosts. Just her. And the blade. And power. Korrak exhaled sharply. And moved. Fast. His hand snapped up, fingers closing around her throat. Her golden eyes widened. Not in fear. In delight. ¡°Oh, Korrak,¡± she breathed. And then the trap sprung. Shadows exploded from her skin. The chamber shifted. The torches died. The scent of perfume twisted into something rancid, rotting, something old. The altar cracked. And the abyss beneath Helm¡¯s Reach began to awaken. The Ascension of Fire The world shattered. The moment Korrak seized Rylana by the throat, the chamber collapsed into madness. The torches guttered out. The cold flames snuffed in an instant, plunging the temple into unnatural darkness. The scent of perfume and honeyed myrrh twisted, curdling into something foul, something rancid and rotten, as if the walls themselves had begun to decay from the inside out. And the shadows moved. Not as they had before¡ªnot simply shifting under the flicker of firelight. They came alive. Tendrils of pure blackness unfurled from the corners of the room, curling across the walls like creeping vines, pulsing with a hideous life. They slithered forward, reaching for him, their edges writhing like grasping fingers. And Rylana? She laughed. Even as his hand tightened around her throat, even as his fingers pressed into her too-warm flesh, she laughed. Low. Breathless. Thrilled. "You should have taken my offer," she whispered, her golden eyes burning even in the dark. "But you¡ªyou never could, could you?" Korrak bared his teeth, his breath hot and ragged. "I don¡¯t make pacts with corpses." She smiled. "Then let¡¯s see who buries who." The shadows struck.
Korrak barely moved in time. One of the tendrils lashed out, striking the stone where he had stood moments before, splitting the floor apart like brittle ice. Fragments of ancient rock sprayed into the air, and from the gash in the earth, something pulsed. Something old. Something hungry. Korrak rolled aside, his body still screaming from Gorthak¡¯s bruises, his muscles aching with exhaustion. But pain was nothing. He had fought through worse. He had bled through worse. And he would kill through worse. He drew his sword. Steel sang in the dark. But the shadows kept coming. They lashed forward, some striking like whips, others clawing at the air, their edges alive with writhing mouths and hollow, whispering voices. Korrak moved between them, his blade flashing, cutting through their shifting forms. Each time the steel met the dark,the tendrils screeched, recoiling back, momentarily banished¡ªbut never destroyed.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. They kept reforming. Kept coming. And at the center of it all, Rylana stood untouched. She did not command the shadows. She was them. Korrak¡¯s jaw tightened. "You were never here to stop me," he growled. His blade deflected another strike, sparks flying as the tendril scraped across the steel before retreating. Rylana tilted her head, that ever-present smirk still playing on her lips. "No," she admitted. "I was here to slow you." The shadows lurched all at once, forcing him backward¡ªtoward the altar. Toward the Gjallarbrand. Korrak¡¯s eyes flicked toward the blade, still resting on the cracked stone, gleaming with an unnatural glow. The whispers in his skull grew louder. We are waiting. We are fire. Take us. The air thickened. The ground shifted. And then Korrak saw it. Not just the altar. But what lay beneath it. A second burial slab, hidden below the first, buried in chains of black iron, pulsing with veins of living dark. It was breaking apart. Korrak¡¯s breath hitched. "You didn¡¯t come to kill me," he murmured, realization dawning. His gaze snapped back to Rylana. "You came to keep me here. To keep me occupied." Her smile widened. And then¡ªthe chains snapped.
The temple shuddered. A deep, terrible noise rumbled from beneath the stone. A sound that was not sound. A noise that came from the bones of the world, vibrating through the walls, the pillars, the shattered runes beneath his feet. Something was waking up. Something older than Velros. Older than the gods themselves. Rylana let out a shuddering breath, golden eyes rolling back for a moment as power flooded the chamber. "Finally," she whispered. The altar split. Darkness erupted. It was not smoke. Not fire. It was the abyss. A formless wound in the world, writhing, pulsing, its tendrils lashing against reality itself, trying to unmake everything it touched. The temple began to fall apart. And Korrak knew¡ªif he didn¡¯t take the sword now, it would be lost. He moved. Fast. The moment his fingers closed around the Gjallarbrand¡¯s hilt, the world exploded.
Fire. Not the flickering light of torches. Not the cruel, blue-tinted flame of sorcery. This was something else. Something ancient. Something that burned with the voices of the dead. The moment Korrak grasped the hilt, the Gjallarbrand awoke. We are with you. We are fire. We are the blade. Heat rushed through his body, not burning, but searing. Branding. His muscles locked, his breath caught in his throatas the sword became part of him. And the abyss howled. Rylana let out a sharp gasp, stumbling back, her eyes wide for the first time. "No," she breathed. "No, you weren¡¯t supposed to¡ª" Korrak moved. The Gjallarbrand sang. The fire rushed outward, cutting through the shadows like a scythe through wheat. The abyss recoiled. Rylana screamed. Korrak did not stop. He surged forward, the blade wreathed in white fire, cleaving through the tendrils that still clawed toward him. The shadows burned. The abyss reeled. And for the first time¡ªRylana looked afraid. The temple was falling now, the ground cracking beneath them, the abyss spreading, seeking something to devour, to cling to. Rylana was staggering backward, breathing hard, bleeding now. "You bastard," she whispered, her voice ragged. "You don¡¯t even know what you¡¯ve done." Korrak stepped toward her, his sword still burning, his breath still heavy. "I ended this," he growled. Rylana let out a breathless laugh. And behind her, something moved. Not her. Not the shadows. Something bigger. Something pulling itself from the pit. Korrak felt it before he saw it. A presence that did not belong in this world. His breath came slow and sharp. This was not over. Not yet. Interlude: The Price of Greed The south was a land of sweat and blood. Its cities were built on the backs of slaves, its palaces lined with gold ripped from dying hands. Here, coin was god, and its priests were the merchant kings¡ªmen who had never swung a sword in battle, yet commanded armies with the stroke of a pen. They dined on the spoils of betrayal, sat atop thrones carved from suffering. Men like Aldric, Jerran, and Myron. Korrak had come to them as a buyer, not as a killer. He had trusted them, foolishly, believing that coin might hold more weight than steel in the sweltering south. He had paid a king¡¯s ransom in gold and relics, seeking weapons to outfit his warriors in the north, to arm those who still held to the old ways. He had been met with smiles and handshakes, with assurances that his steel would be delivered. And then they had tried to kill him. The deal had been a lie. The weapons had never existed. Korrak had arrived at the docks to collect his shipment, only to find an ambush waiting. The merchant kings had sent a hundred hired killers, mercenaries in lacquered armor, armed with crossbows and curved swords, waiting in the shadows of towering spice warehouses. Korrak had smelled it before he saw it. The air had been thick with sweat and tension, the scent of men trying to stand still, trying to quiet their breath. He had not waited. The first man had died before he could fire. Korrak lunged low, fast, an axe in each hand, his bare chest glistening with sweat. The first cut split a throat, the second shattered a kneecap, and suddenly, the ambush had turned into a massacre. Crossbow bolts hissed through the air, some grazing his skin, one slicing through his shoulder. But pain had long since been an old friend, and Korrak had kept moving, kept cutting, turning their precision into panic. He did not fall. He did not falter. By the time the last few men tried to run, there were bodies piled at his feet, the ground slick with blood. Korrak let them go. Let them return to their masters. Let them bring word of what had happened. Let the merchant kings know he was coming.
Aldric¡¯s Reckoning Aldric sat in his sprawling estate, drinking dark spiced wine, pretending he was not afraid. The marble floors were cool against his feet, the scent of burning incense thick in the air, meant to mask the stink of sweat that clung to his skin. He was not a man accustomed to fear, but tonight, the walls of his palace felt too thin, the flickering torches in the hall too dim. News had reached him of the failed ambush. Of butchered men, of crossbows useless against the storm of blades that had torn through them. Aldric had spent years building his empire on deception and treachery. He had outlived rivals, had crushed those who sought to stand against him. Korrak was no different, just another brute from the north who thought his rage meant something in the grand scheme of things.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. Yet, deep down, beneath the layers of arrogance and false certainty, he knew better. He had seen the aftermath of what Korrak had done to his men. Had read the terrified accounts of mercenaries who had barely escaped, their minds shattered, their faces still streaked with the blood of their brothers. The barbarian was not a man. He was a force of nature. Aldric had tripled his guards, had hired the best swordsmen in the city, men who had once fought for kings, men who had won battles against armies. His estate had become a fortress, every entry point sealed, watchtowers lined with archers. It would be impossible to reach him. Which meant he did not expect the screaming to start.
The first death came quietly. A guard, standing watch atop the eastern tower, his throat slit before he could even cry out. His body toppled over the edge, hitting the marble courtyard below with a sickening crunch. The second was messier. A sentry patrolling the garden, his torch snuffed out, a hand clamping over his mouth as a dagger was driven into his kidney, twisted, ripped free. By the time the third guard noticed something was wrong, it was already too late. Korrak was inside. He moved through the courtyard like a shadow wrapped in sinew and scars, his skin slick with sweat and blood. The southern heat had soaked through his body, but it did not slow him. If anything, it made the killing smoother, made the wetness of the blood blend with the sweat already on his skin. He did not fight like a soldier. He fought like a starving animal, a creature that only knew how to rip and tear. Guards rushed to stop him, but they had never fought anything like this before. Korrak¡¯s axe bit into the first man¡¯s skull, the impact shattering the bone like pottery. Another came at him with a spear¡ªhe caught the shaft, twisted it, and drove the point through the man¡¯s open mouth, pinning him to a marble column. More came, more died. Limbs were severed. Faces caved in. Blood painted the walls. Aldric had spent his life sending men to die for him. Now he was trapped in his own palace, listening as they were slaughtered like animals. He ran.
The merchant king barricaded himself in his chamber, throwing furniture against the doors, his fingers trembling as he tried to hold his dagger steady. The silk cushions, the golden goblets, the decadent displays of his wealth¡ªthey were meaningless now. All that mattered was the thing outside his door. Then¡ªsilence. Aldric held his breath. Sweat dripped down his spine. Then the door exploded inward. Korrak stepped through the wreckage, blood-drenched, his axe dripping onto the polished floor. His eyes burned in the torchlight, but he said nothing. Aldric threw the dagger. Korrak caught it in midair, his fingers closing around the blade like it was nothing more than a piece of fruit. He turned it over in his palm, looking down at it, then at Aldric. The merchant king whimpered. "You stole from me," Korrak said, his voice like distant thunder, low and heavy with something worse than rage. Aldric tried to beg, but Korrak had already moved. The first blow broke his ribs, the force sending him sprawling onto the floor. He tried to crawl, to reach for something¡ªanything¡ªbut Korrak grabbed him by the hair, dragged him across the room, and slammed him face-first into the banquet table. The rich mahogany split from the impact. Aldric gasped, teeth scattering across the floor, mouth filling with blood and bile. "You don¡¯t get to do this to me," Korrak growled, pressing a boot to Aldric¡¯s chest, pinning him like an insect beneath his heel. "Not and live." Aldric wheezed, his broken mouth forming the words "please¡ª" Korrak silenced him with steel. The knife punched into his stomach, slid deep, ripped upward. Aldric shook violently, his body convulsing as his own lifeblood spilled across his robes. Korrak ripped the blade free. And stabbed him again. And again. Until Aldric was nothing but torn silk and shredded flesh, a ruin of a man who had once thought himself untouchable. Korrak wiped the blood from his blade. One down. Two to go.
By dawn, the city burned. By nightfall, Korrak was already moving again. Because debt was paid in blood. And he was there to collect. The Horror of the Abyss The temple was falling. Stone splintered and groaned as cracks ran through the ancient foundation. The sigils carved into the walls¡ªonce symbols of devotion¡ªshriveled 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¡ªher black silks were tattered, her golden eyes no longer glowing with the same knowing arrogance.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. 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¡ªthe temple, the stones, the ancient magic woven into Helm¡¯s Reach¡ªthe 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¡ªbut 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¡ªRylana¡¯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¡ªhis 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¡ªquietly: "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. The Fire Razed The northern wastes stretched before him, endless and cruel. Korrak ran. Not from fear. Not from the abyss. But toward Velros. The ruined temple of Helm¡¯s Reach collapsed behind him, its stones cracking and crumbling into dust, swallowed by the horror that had awakened beneath it. The abyss was not chasing him. It didn¡¯t need to. It was spreading. Korrak had seen it in the sky, the way the stars had begun to shift, dimming, retreating from the taint creeping across the world. The wind carried the scent of charred stone, of magic gone wrong, of something unnatural unraveling the fabric of existence itself. Velros had done this. And Velros would answer for it. The Gjallarbrand burned in his grip, whispering, calling, feeding him strength he should not have had. The voices of the old gods, the warriors of ages past, were screaming now, demanding blood, demanding fire. The final battle waited ahead. The last hunt. The ruins of Velros¡¯s fortress were less than a day¡¯s march from Helm¡¯s Reach¡ªa shattered citadel of black stone, its towers broken, its gates lined with bodies. Not just any bodies. The corpses of warlords, priests, warriors who had stood against Velros and lost. Not impaled. Not hung. Their bones had been twisted, reshaped, elongated like melted wax, their faces frozen in eternal screams. Flesh had been stretched too thin, peeled open like parchment, revealing muscles that still pulsed, eyes that still blinked despite their lifelessness. Some were nailed to the stone walls, their ribcages cracked open like the jaws of starving beasts. Others had been merged together, melted into grotesque pillars of fused bone and torn skin, their voices still echoing in the wind. A monument to Velros¡¯s failures. Korrak stepped past them. He was not afraid. He had walked through fire, through curses, through things that should never have existed. And now, only one thing remained. The great hall of the ruined fortress was wrong. Not cold, not warm. Not anything. The air felt hollow, as if something had scooped the life from it, leaving behind only a faint, lingering echo of reality. Velros stood at the center of the ruin, beneath a gaping wound in the sky. The abyss was behind him. No longer a formless thing lurking beneath the world¡ªnow, it was awake, visible, pulsing in the heavens, shifting like an infection against the stars. Velros smiled. "You should have stayed dead, Korrak." The warlock was changed. He had always been tall, but now he seemed stretched, his frame thinner, his robes woven from something shifting, writhing. His eyes burned with violet fire, and his veins bulged black beneath his pale skin, pulsing with something not entirely human anymore.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. He had touched the abyss. He had become it. "You think you¡¯ve come to kill me?" Velros asked, his voice calm, amused. Korrak said nothing. He had stopped speaking long ago. He just moved. The Gjallarbrand struck first. Korrak lunged, blade singing, burning white-hot as it arced through the air. The moment the steel met Velros¡¯s flesh, there was a **shockwave¡ª**a blast of heat, of force, of something ancient and angry. Velros staggered back. His expression flickered¡ªfor the first time, he looked surprised. Then he grinned. "Ah," he murmured. "So you did find it." Korrak didn¡¯t give him time to speak further. He attacked again. Velros moved like a shadow cast by fire¡ªfast, shifting, flickering from one point to another. Korrak¡¯s blade carved through his robes, through the space where he should have been, but Velros was already gone. Then the warlock countered. A wave of pure abyssal force exploded outward, slamming into Korrak like a collapsing mountain. He skidded across the stone, his back colliding with the shattered remnants of a throne. Pain spiked through his ribs. But he had felt worse. He rose again. Velros watched him, intrigued. "You¡¯re different now," he mused. "The blade has changed you." Korrak rolled his shoulders. "Not enough." Velros smiled. Then he raised a hand. The abyss answered. The sky ripped open. Tendrils of black fire, of living shadow, of something beyond reality itself, surged downward. Not reaching for Korrak. Not yet. It was devouring the world. Velros lifted his gaze to the abyss, his arms outstretched, his voice low, reverent. "The gods are gone," he whispered. "The old ways are fading. The only thing that remains is the end." His gaze lowered back to Korrak. "And I," Velros said, smiling, "will become it." The abyss poured into him. And Velros changed. His body twisted. Not simply growing¡ªreshaping. His limbs lengthened. His fingers became claws, his spine curving, cracking, his bones snapping and reforming as abyssal energy poured through him. His face stretched, his eyes multiplying¡ªnot just two, but six, then ten, then too many to count, all of them burning violet, all of them locked onto Korrak. A new voice came from his throat, layered, something not fully human anymore. "You cannot kill me, barbarian." Korrak gripped the Gjallarbrand. "We¡¯ll see." The battle was fire and ruin. Velros struck with the force of the abyss itself, his claws carving through the air, rifts of black magic tearing apart the stone floor beneath them. Korrak dodged left, then right, each movement calculated, the Gjallarbrand flashing in the dark. The blade met Velros¡¯s flesh again. This time, the warlock screamed. The abyss reeled. And Korrak knew. The Gjallarbrand was not just steel. It was the last fire. The last remnant of the gods. The only thing that could sever the abyss from this world. And Velros felt it. His twisted form shuddered, his mouths opening in silent, agonized screams as the blade burned through him. Korrak drove the sword deeper. The fire erupted. The abyss shrieked. Velros¡¯s form began to crack, splintering, unraveling into dust, into fading embers, into something less than nothing. And then¡ªhe was gone. And the abyss collapsed. The fortress crumbled. The sky shifted. The wound began to close. Korrak stood alone, the Gjallarbrand still burning in his grip. It was over. Finally. He turned toward the ruined gates. And Rylana was there. Still alive. Still watching. A slow, knowing smile on her lips. "You feel it, don¡¯t you?" she murmured. Korrak didn¡¯t answer. Because he did feel it. The hunt was over. But the hunger remained. He turned toward the frozen wastes. The world would always need a hunter. His grip on the Gjallarbrand tightened. And beneath the pale northern stars, Korrak disappeared into the wilds once more. The hunt would never end. Interlude: Korrak Does not Lose 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¡ªa 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.¡±Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. 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¡ªuntil 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. The First Signs The wind howled across the frozen cliffs, dragging ice and snow in sweeping gusts that bit deep into exposed flesh. The northern wastes were always cruel, but tonight, there was something else in the air¡ªa wrongness that sat beneath the cold, waiting. Korrak pulled his furs tighter around his shoulders, his breath thick mist in the darkness. He had felt it all day, an itch in his skull, a pressure in his chest, as if something unseen had begun to close in. He did not like it. The mountains were silent. The usual groans of shifting ice, the distant howls of wolves¡ªgone. Even the crows had fled. He pressed forward, boots crunching over the frost, his fingers brushing the worn hilt of his sword. An old habit, one he didn¡¯t realize he did until the weight reassured him. He could kill a man with an axe. He could run one through with a spear. But a sword¡ªa sword was a killer¡¯s weapon, meant for the hands of a man who knew nothing else. And Korrak knew nothing else. The hunt had led him here¡ªa raider''s trail, fresh blood frozen in the snow. A good fight, he had thought. A reason to kill men who deserved it. Now, he wasn¡¯t sure. The raiders had vanished. Their tracks led only one way¡ªup toward the peak, into the remains of some long-forgotten ruin, black stones jutting from the ice like the bones of a dead god. And they had not come back down. Korrak reached the ruin¡¯s entrance. A temple, maybe¡ªonce. It was hard to tell. The walls were too smooth, the angles too sharp, as if the place had been carved not by men, but by something that did not know how men built things. The door was already open. The trail led inside. Korrak followed.
Inside, the air was still. Too still. The cold did not reach this far in, but neither did warmth. There was nothing here. The tunnel sloped downward, deeper into the earth, walls lined with carvings. Korrak ran his fingers across them as he passed. Old symbols, older than the sagas, older than any kingdom he had burned. But he did not recognize them. That bothered him. The deeper he went, the heavier the air became, like breathing tar, like the walls themselves were pressing against him. The blood trail continued, but it was wrong now. No longer footsteps, but instead long dragging marks, as if something had been pulled through the stone.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. He exhaled through his nose. And then¡ªhe smelled it. Rot. A fresh rot, meaty and thick, too heavy in the air to be just one body. He pressed forward. And then he found them.
The raiders were still there. Sort of. Their bodies had been arranged in a perfect circle, backs arched unnaturally, their spines snapped in the same place, limbs sprawled in the same direction, heads tilted back in a silent, gaping scream. Their faces were not right. Their mouths had been split wider than they should have been, their jaws unhinged, stretched into wide, vacant smiles. Their eyes were gone. Not carved out. Not torn away. Just gone, as if something had scooped them from the sockets without breaking the skin. Korrak frowned. He had seen many things in his time. Bodies broken, burned, chewed apart by beasts. Limbs missing. Heads caved in. This was different. This was purposeful. Someone had done this, not out of rage, not out of hunger, but for a reason. He stepped closer. And then he saw the symbols. Carved into their flesh, spiraling from their bellies to their throats, deep enough to scar, but not enough to kill outright. The wounds had bled, yes¡ªbut only for a time. These men had been alive when it happened. And for a long while after. Korrak crouched, pressing two fingers against one of the symbols, wiping away a thin sheen of frost and dried blood. It almost looked like a map. He did not like that. Then, something shifted in the dark. Not a noise¡ªa presence. The hair on his arms stood on end. He rose slowly, his hand already at his sword. The familiar weight of it in his grip steadied him. He had never believed in gods, but he had always believed in steel. And steel had never lied to him. He was not alone down here. The dead were smiling. But something else was watching.
Korrak turned. And it was there. A shape in the shadows, too tall, its head tilted, unmoving. It did not breathe. It did not step forward. It simply watched him. Korrak was used to fear. He had felt the weight of battle, the pulse of an enemy¡¯s blade scraping against his ribs, the cold certainty of death looming over him. But this was different. This was old fear. The kind that sat beneath the skin, the kind that every man is born with but forgets until it¡¯s too late. His grip tightened on his sword. The shape did not move. But he knew, somehow, that it was smiling. Then it spoke. A voice like cracking ice. Like something that had not used words in centuries. ¡°You were supposed to remember.¡± Korrak did not respond. He drove forward, sword swinging, moving to kill before it could speak again. The blade met nothing. And when he turned¡ª The thing was gone.
Korrak stood alone. The corpses of the raiders smiled up at him, their faces frozen in their final moments. He exhaled. Turned. And left them behind. But as he walked, as he climbed out of the temple of wrong angles, something still sat in his chest, something he did not like. The voice had felt too familiar. The words had been meant for him. And the stars, far above the wasteland, looked different now. Korrak did not believe in gods. But the gods believed in him. And some things should never be worshiped. The Hollowed Cultists The northern wastes had never been kind, but this stretch of land was particularly miserable. The wind howled through the broken spines of dead trees, dragging ice across the barren tundra. No game had passed through here in weeks. No men, either¡ªno sane ones, at least. The snow was wrong beneath Korrak¡¯s boots, too loose in some places, too packed in others, as if the ground itself had shifted beneath it. He did not like that. The wind carried no birdsong, no distant howls, no signs of the life that usually clung stubbornly to the cold. Just silence. That was always a bad sign. Korrak adjusted the weight of his sword against his back and kept walking. He had been following the dead. Not fresh corpses¡ªnot even frozen ones. But the trails they had left behind. The marks of dragging bodies, the strange symbols carved into trees, the unsettling paths of bare footprints that never sank into the snow. Whatever had arranged those raiders into their perfect little ritual, whatever had smiled at him from the dark, was not alone. Which meant it was time to find the others.
It was dusk when he saw the first glow of fire in the distance. A village. Or what was left of one. Small, little more than a collection of crooked huts, half-swallowed by frost. There was no smoke from the chimneys, though the fires still burned in the center of the settlement. That was wrong. Korrak approached, boots crunching against the ice-packed ground. He did not bother hiding. He had found that men who feared being seen usually weren¡¯t worth talking to anyway. If they ran, they were cowards. If they fought, he¡¯d have answers. But the people did not run. They watched. From the shadows of doorways, from the edges of buildings, their eyes wide, their faces too pale, like they had never seen sunlight in their lives.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. They were waiting. Korrak did not like that.
He stopped near the central fire. The flames burned too low, casting long, twitching shadows against the frozen walls. And then¡ªthey came. A group of figures, hooded and cloaked, emerging slowly, deliberately. They did not carry weapons. They did not look afraid. Instead, they bowed. Korrak frowned. That was new. The tallest among them lifted his hood. He was old, but not weak, his face lined with deep scars, his hair white as the snow beneath them. His eyes¡ªtoo dark, too sunken¡ªlocked onto Korrak¡¯s, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then the old man smiled. ¡°We have waited for you.¡± Korrak sighed. Loudly. ¡°Of course you have.¡±
The old man gestured to a wooden bench near the fire. ¡°Come,¡± he said. ¡°Sit. Warm yourself. We have much to discuss.¡± Korrak did not sit. Instead, he folded his arms, watching the gathered villagers¡ªfollowers¡ªcultists, whatever they were. Not one of them had stopped staring. ¡°I¡¯m not here for stories.¡± His voice came rough, low, like a growl rolling beneath his breath. ¡°Just tell me what you are.¡± The old man¡¯s smile did not fade. ¡°We are the Hollowborn.¡± Korrak¡¯s fingers twitched against the hilt of his sword. ¡°Sounds like a bad omen.¡± The old man laughed, soft, breathy. ¡°No, hunter. It is a promise.¡± Korrak did not like that either.
The old man spread his arms, slow, deliberate. The fire reflected strangely in his eyes, making them seem deeper, darker. ¡°You are the Hollow King,¡± he said. ¡°And this is your kingdom.¡± Korrak stared at him. Then¡ªhe laughed. It wasn¡¯t a pleasant laugh. More like a sharp exhale, a scoff full of disbelief and irritation. He shook his head, running a hand over his jaw. ¡°You lot have the wrong man.¡± The old man¡¯s smile did not fade. ¡°There is no mistake.¡± ¡°You sure about that?¡± Korrak gestured at himself. ¡°Do I look like a king to you?¡± ¡°The Hollow does not choose lightly,¡± the man said, ignoring him completely. Korrak exhaled again. This was already getting exhausting.
One of the others¡ªa younger man, gaunt, wrapped in tattered robes¡ªstepped forward suddenly. ¡°I have seen him in my dreams.¡± His voice wavered. ¡°I have seen him standing before the shrine.¡± Korrak tilted his head. ¡°Good for you.¡± The young man did not blink. ¡°The Hollow remembers you,¡± he whispered. ¡°And you are beginning to remember it.¡± Korrak¡¯s fingers tensed. ¡°Not interested.¡± The old man sighed, shaking his head, as if he had expected this. ¡°The path has already been carved, hunter. You have seen the symbols. You know what they mean.¡± Korrak flexed his jaw, thinking. The symbols on the bodies in the temple. The way the thing in the dark had spoken his name. The feeling¡ªthe awful, creeping feeling¡ªthat he had been here before. He did not believe in fate. But fate had found him anyway.
He looked at the gathered faces again. They did not look hopeful. They did not look fearful. They looked certain. That bothered him more than anything else. Korrak exhaled through his nose. ¡°Where¡¯s this shrine?¡± The cultists smiled. They had been waiting for him to ask.
Korrak did not believe in gods. But gods, it seemed, believed in him. And if they thought that meant he was going to kneel, they were going to be disappointed. Or dead. He wasn¡¯t sure which one yet. Maybe both. He reached for his sword and started walking.