The wind howled like wolves across the cliffs of Nordell, carrying snow that bit like knives. The fortress of Frosthollow loomed ahead—an obsidian tower built into the mountain face, unreachable to most. But Kael Draven was not most men.
He stood beneath the jagged overhang of a frozen ridge, cloaked in furs stolen from a dead mercenary, his breath shallow against the cold. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his blade—the cursed steel known as Vareth, wrapped in old cloth to suppress its glow. Even now, it pulsed faintly, sensing blood nearby.
He had tracked Lord Kaen Morr here for weeks. The warlord of Nordell, a butcher dressed as a noble, had vanished into his mountain stronghold with an army at his back. He was cautious, cruel, and heavily guarded. None of that would matter.
Kael wasn't here for justice. He was here for retribution.
He waited until nightfall.
The first to die was the scout. Silent kill. Throat slit, body buried beneath snow. Then came the wall guard—dragged over the edge before his cry could echo.
Kael moved like smoke, slipping past patrols, scaling cold stone with rope and blade. Frosthollow was no simple fortress—it was a labyrinth of carved halls, fire-warmed chambers, and brutal men who feared no enemy. Until tonight.
He found the war room just before midnight. The door was guarded by two elite soldiers in black wolf-helms. Kael struck before either could draw steel. A dagger to the throat, a snap of the neck. The door creaked open on leather hinges.
Inside, Lord Kaen stood hunched over a map, a goblet in hand, his back turned.
"Another report, already?" the warlord grunted without looking.
Kael stepped forward.
"No. A reckoning."
Kaen turned too late. The cursed blade Vareth hissed from its wrappings and struck.
Steel met steel—Kaen was fast, faster than Kael expected. Their blades clashed in a flurry of sparks, steel ringing off ancient stone. Kaen fought like a man who had killed many—but Kael fought like a man with nothing left to lose.
A scream rose from the blade—Vareth's scream—as it cut through Kaen's sword, then shoulder, then spine.
The warlord fell to his knees, blood steaming on the cold stone.
"You... Draven," Kaen spat. "You were... dead."
"I was," Kael answered. "But the dead have no mercy."
He drove the blade home.
Later, Kael stood at the highest tower, staring out over the white wilderness. Frosthollow burned behind him, a tower of smoke rising into the stars.
One name was crossed from the stone.
Four remained.
And the blade was still hungry.