Chapter 5

Whispers of the Syren

It had taken half a day for the plan to be decided and the preparations to be complete. Darius was fitted with his noble, pristine elven armour. Other than the veins of fire coursing through his flesh, he was the embodiment of an arrogant elven noble. The sight enraged Max, but he allowed it—necessary for the plan to work. Unable to find armour that would fit his towering stature, Max wrapped cloth around his face, leaving only his glowing eyes visible. Darius and the rest of the elves were given horses and rode at the head of the column, while Max walked close behind on foot.

The column advanced along the road, quickly coming into view of the plateau, where horns blared loudly into the air. With impressive speed, a large force of hounds began to arm themselves with fragmented armour and chipped ancient blades, setting up a defensive line. Max counted roughly seventy of the hulking creatures, poorly equipped but heavily muscled, preparing atop the plateau.

Max felt his mind slipping into the trance-like state of battle, his vision tinged with red, before he realised something was wrong—a feeling that Minion echoed. Hounds did not fight defensively. They were a brutal frontline force, meant to crush enemy lines with sheer strength and ferocity. In seventy years of fighting them, Max had never seen them take a defensive stance.

After a brief discussion with Minion about the unusual behaviour, they decided to approach despite the unease it caused. The column marched along the poorly maintained Weennore Road, the hounds’ watchful eyes tracking their every step. As they reached the base of the winding slope that led up to the plateau, a monstrous howl echoed through the air. It was followed by a deep, feral growl that meant nothing to Max until Minion translated quietly.

“He says he is Fetris the Bloody Pelt, and he demands your title.”

The words made Max’s mind race. Using his connection to the souls he had claimed, he sent a silent command to Darius. The elf, sitting proud and haughty atop his steed, responded in the old tongue—a language Max only barely understood, though he hoped the hound did.

“I am Darius of House Sorbus, heir to the throne of Scarvo!” Darius proclaimed, his eyes locked onto Fetris, who was breathing heavily, struggling to suppress the bloodlust Max recognised all too well.

As the confrontation continued, Max studied the hounds. They were monstrous beings, with many towering even above his own imposing height. Most were over eight feet tall, with bodies made of rippling muscle. Their wolf-like features were dominated by long, powerful muzzles, jagged teeth that dripped with cloudy saliva, and eyes filled with a mix of animal cunning and barely restrained rage. Soft fur covered their forms, though fragmented armour pieces clung to their chests and limbs. Their legs bent forward unnaturally, ending in sharp claws that gripped the ground like weapons. Max marvelled at their sheer physicality but kept his attention sharp as Fetris let out another guttural growl.

“I believe he asked, ‘You are blood of Silver Chieftain?’” Minion whispered, his voice edged with disbelief. Max, too, found it difficult to believe Darius and his brothers were considered contenders for the throne of Scarvo. Still, he relayed the next response.

“Yes, I am his blood and future successor! I am insulted that you would block my path!” Darius spat, letting righteous anger lace his voice as Max had instructed. The hounds snarled in response, though Max knew these creatures respected strength above all.

Fetris’s growl deepened, his claws digging into his palms. “He says, ‘This is our road. All must pay the toll, in shiny or blood,’” Minion translated.

Darius sneered in reply, the arrogance in his tone reaching its peak. “Are you so simple-minded that you fail to understand your place? I am the blood of your King, and you are but petulant servants! You dare make demands of me?” he roared, spurring his horse closer and spitting towards the hounds.

Fetris snarled in fury, his hackles raised. “He said, ‘If you are the blood of the chieftain, then you would have much shiny to pay the toll,’” Minion relayed. The tension in the air grew thicker with every exchange.

“I will give no silver to the likes of you! Know your place and begone!” Darius bellowed, unsheathing his sword and pointing it at the hounds. Max clenched his fists, wondering if he had miscalculated the effect of the elves’ supposed authority. Fetris howled, blood dripping from his claws, before roaring his final declaration.

“I think he said, ‘You choose blood, then!’” Minion translated just as Fetris raised his massive axe and let out a battle cry.

Max cursed under his breath as the hounds prepared to charge. Drawing his twin swords, he signalled to the skal to take up arms with whatever they could find—construction tools, scavenged weapons—readying themselves for a desperate defence. Before the hounds could descend, however, a commanding voice cut through the chaos.

“That is enough!”

The hounds froze at the sound of the commanding voice, their weapons still in hand but no longer poised to strike. All eyes turned to the source of the command. Sensing an opportunity, Max ordered Darius and the other elves to retreat to the front of the column, forming a defensive line. The skal shifted to support them, their makeshift weapons at the ready. Women and children had already been moved to the rear of the convoy in preparation for a retreat if things turned violent. Max moved to the front, swords drawn, ready to stand his ground against the beasts. In that moment he craved his old friend Rib Smasher.

As the tense standoff continued, only Fetris turned back to face Max’s group. His bloodshot eyes no longer locked on Darius but focused squarely on Max. As if knowing he was the true threat, the hound’s body radiated aggression towards Max, his claws twitching with restrained fury. Max matched his stare, unwilling to show even a hint of weakness.

Then, to Max’s surprise, Fetris growled something incomprehensible, but the rest of the hounds did not move to attack. Instead, they turned toward the rear of their formation, where another figure emerged.

“I may be mistaken but they said she wants to speak with the Wraith, not his worms,” Minion whispered the translation in confusion. His hand instinctively tightened on the small bag of stones he carried for defence. “She says we will be eaten if we harm them.”

Max froze at the term "Wraith." It was a name he had been called before—by magic users who claimed to see the souls of the dead clinging to him like shadows. His stomach sank. Whoever this "she" was, she was no ordinary human. He called Chris to the front of the column, knowing his shadow iron sword was their best defence against magic if it came to a fight.

Slowly, a figure appeared at the edge of the plateau—the woman Max had seen earlier. She surveyed the convoy with a measured gaze that made Max’s skin crawl. Her eyes seemed to pierce through every layer of deception, peeling away pretence to reveal the truth beneath.

“What are you?” she asked, her voice calm but cutting as her eyes lingered on Darius and the other elves. From this distance, Max could see her more clearly. Her eyes were a striking brown, slightly slanted, with an almost elven quality. She wore a tattered dress, barely enough to cover her slender frame, exposing pale skin that stood in stark contrast to her fiery red hair.

“He is elf king’s pack,” Fetris growled in broken Imperial, surprising Max with his use of the human tongue.

The woman tilted her head, her gaze returning to Max. “I don’t know what he is, but he is not an elf anymore. In truth, I am not even sure he’s alive.” Her voice was laced with curiosity, but there was something unsettling about her tone—an odd mixture of confidence and detachment.

Without another word, she turned and began descending the slope, four hounds following closely behind her. Fetris was among them, his heavy footsteps shaking the earth as he walked. Max tensed, his fingers tightening around the hilts of his swords as he watched her approach.

When she reached the base of the slope, she didn’t stop. Instead, she strolled through the gathered elves, her eyes scanning each one as though she were reading their very souls. Finally, she stopped in front of Darius, her lips curling into a faint smile.

“How dare you, female!” Darius spat, feigning insult as Max had instructed. “I will not have human scum speak to me with such insolence!” His voice dripped with arrogance, but the woman was unfazed.

“How about we drop the ruse?” she said, her smile widening as her gaze shifted to Max. “They’re tied to you somehow. I can see the tendrils linking them to your soul. Whatever you just did—it allowed me to see energy pass from you into this so-called ‘elf.’ Fascinating. How do you do it?”

Max let out a groan, realising the charade had failed. Reaching up, he pulled the cloth from his face and let it fall to the ground. His glowing green eyes locked with hers, and he saw a spark of recognition flash in her expression.

“I think the more important question is why I should tell you anything, witch,” Max growled, his voice low and threatening. The woman’s smile didn’t falter.

Fetris snarled, stepping forward until he loomed over Max. “You do not speak to Mystic female like that!” the hound rumbled, his claws flexing. Max craned his neck to meet the towering beast’s gaze, making Max feel small for perhaps the first time.

“Stop it, Fetris,” the woman ordered sharply. Her voice was suddenly cold, authoritative. “You will incur the wrath of the Gods if you anger them.”

Fetris froze, swallowing hard before lowering his head in submission. Max’s jaw tightened as he watched the exchange, his mind racing to decipher what sort of power this woman wielded over the beasts.

“You are to guide this man’s people to our camp,” she continued, her tone brooking no argument. “You will share your food and water with them. None are to be harmed. Is that clear?”

Max’s instincts screamed against the idea of walking into the hounds’ den. He pondered taking her hostage, forcing the hounds to submit if they wanted her returned. Before he could act, the woman approached him. She leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “Please, I need your help.” Her voice was desperate, trembling with suppressed emotion.

When she pulled back, Max saw a single tear glistening in her eye before she blinked it away. Her confident mask returned, and she began barking orders to the hounds, who scurried to obey.

Minion appeared at Max’s side, his small form bristling with unease. “What do you think? Can she be trusted?” he asked, his voice low. His gaze remained fixed on the woman, though Max suspected they were both looking at different areas of her body. His eyes could not help glancing over her thin neck, with a grin forming on his lips as it did, before a voice from his past reminded him, The Way.

“We have no silver to pay their toll, and in a fight, we’d likely all die—or at least lose enough that we couldn’t recover. I don’t see any other choice but to trust her.” His voice was grim, his heart heavy with the weight of the decision.

Minion nodded reluctantly before scuttling off to relay the orders. The convoy began to move once more, heading toward the hounds’ camp—and into the unknown.

The hounds’ camp was a chaotic sprawl of rough-hewn structures and makeshift shelters. The air was thick with the pungent smell of sweat, earth, and something sickly sweet that Max couldn’t place. Everywhere he looked, hounds snarled and glared at the skal, the humans, and even the elves. Despite the tense atmosphere, the hounds obeyed the woman’s orders. Fires were lit, and a large hog was skewered on a spit, its fat dripping into the flames below.

A potent liquid called “Root of the Mountain” was passed around in clay jugs, its sharp, earthy scent wafting through the air. Max refused to drink it, unwilling to dull his senses in such a dangerous place. The skal, however, were less cautious. They chirped and chattered as the drink took hold, their small bodies swaying with drunken enthusiasm.

Max remained on guard, his swords sheathed but always within reach as he patrolled the camp. His eyes frequently returned to the woman, who sat on a crude throne next to Fetris. The hound leader glared at Max whenever their eyes met, his posture radiating dominance and aggression. Max knew the beast was itching for an excuse to attack, but for now, Fetris seemed content to remain by the woman’s side.

Her throne, made of wolf pelts and bones, was dwarfed by Fetris’s. The hound’s seat was a jagged construction of heavy skulls and twisted metal, designed to intimidate rather than comfort. Despite the disparity, it was clear the woman held a unique power over the pack.

As the night wore on, the mood in the camp shifted. The tension, though still present, began to soften as the hounds drank their fill of the potent brew. Even Fetris seemed to relax, distracted by the attentions of three female hounds who rubbed and sniffed him. Max took the opportunity to slip out of the firelight, leaving the drunken revelry behind as he wandered toward the outskirts of the camp.

As Max continued his patrol, he caught glimpses of young pups playing with the skal children, including Rod. They darted and tumbled after one another, trying to keep a stick away from the others. Though the pups had the clear advantage in strength and size, the skal were far more agile, using their nimbleness to climb out of reach and taunt their new friends from above. Max found it curious how the pups instinctively ran on all fours, much like little wolves, while their parents moved exclusively on two legs.

He was halfway through his patrol when a soft voice broke the silence behind him. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Max turned sharply, his hand instinctively moving toward his sword. The woman stood a few paces away, her red hair catching the flicker of firelight from the camp. She moved silently, her steps light and graceful like a predator.

“What do you want?” Max asked, his tone clipped. He hadn’t heard her approach, a fact that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

She didn’t answer immediately, instead motioning for him to follow. Without waiting for his agreement, she turned and began walking toward the northern edge of the plateau. Max hesitated, his instincts warning him against leaving the relative safety of the camp. But curiosity and a lingering sense of obligation pushed him to follow.

“I have a lot of questions. First—” Max began, but he was abruptly silenced as she raised her index finger to her small lips. The gesture stirred thoughts in Max—things he knew he wasn’t allowed to think, and things he shouldn’t be thinking in that moment.

The woman led him to a wide stone circle etched into the ground, its surface covered in intricate symbols. At its centre stood a pedestal carved from a single block of dark stone. The carvings on the pedestal were more detailed than those on the circle, their patterns almost hypnotic in their complexity.

“What is this?” Max asked, his voice low.

“A Font,” the woman replied simply, resting her hand on the pedestal. “Like the ones back home.”

Max frowned. He had heard of Fonts before, but only in passing. They were said to be ancient artefacts of incredible power, remnants of a time long before humanity’s rise. Yet, he had never seen one in person, nor had he expected to find one here, in the heart of hound territory.

Before he could press her for details, the woman closed her eyes, her fingers brushing over the pedestal’s carvings as if in prayer. When she opened them again, her expression softened. Without warning, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Max, pulling him into a tight embrace.

Max froze, his body tensing at the sudden contact. Instinctively, his hand moved toward his sword hilt, but he stopped himself before drawing it. The woman’s grip was fierce for one so small, her slender arms trembling as she clung to him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his chest. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen another of my kind.”

Max stood awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. His upbringing had offered little experience with women, and whenever he had encountered them, one of his brothers had always been by his side. Acting on instinct, he raised his right hand and gently placed it on her back, pulling her closer in a tentative embrace. Slowly, he began stroking her long red hair, which fell to her stomach and felt softer than any bed he had ever known.

They remained entwined for what felt like an eternity before she finally moved to pull away. Not realising she intended to step back, Max reflexively tightened his hold, halting her retreat. A beat later, he released her with an awkward laugh, his unease mirrored by the faint blush creeping across his face.

She wiped a tear from her cheek as she looked up at him with a sheepish smile. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just… I haven’t seen another in so long.”

“What are you doing here?” Max asked, his voice softer than before.

The woman’s smile faded, replaced by a shadow of regret. “I… I was on an expedition under the orders of the emperor himself when our ship was attacked. We won the fight, but the ship caught fire, and we were forced to abandon it. Luckily, I managed to swim ashore along with several men from Truestar. Many others weren’t so fortunate, pulled under when the ship sank. It’s been over a year, hence why my clothing is in such a state.” She said, a small grin softening her words as a blush coloured her cheeks.

“How did you end up here? I can’t imagine the hounds rescued you out of the kindness of their hearts,” Max probed. He was curious about this woman who could seemingly command beasts and didn’t want to linger on her body.

“They didn’t. Those of us who made it ashore were immediately set upon by these hounds. They killed the men. I was spared, along with another woman named Sara—the captain’s daughter—by the pack’s previous chieftain. We were meant as a gift for Fetris, who was coming of age. They wanted me to… well, you can guess.” She wrung her hands, her gaze drifting as if peering into a painful memory before refocusing on Max. “I couldn’t save Sara. She… luckily, she didn’t last long.”

Max’s expression remained impassive, but his eyes burned red with anger. His hands instinctively clenched the hilts of his blades. It wasn’t unheard of for raiders from Scarvo to take women from the Empire, treating them like toys for their amusement. The difficulty the older races had with breeding often drove their desperation to acquire human women, prized for their fertility. Even if this woman had escaped that fate, the hounds had still intended it and had slaughtered others who survived the battle. He decided not to ask what they had done to Sara; confirming his suspicions would only stoke his rage further.

“I am a Mystic, you see. That’s how I knew what to say,” she explained. “While I’m not a skilled magic wielder, I am an expert on many of the old races that make up Scarvo. With that knowledge, I knew the hounds were deeply superstitious, often manipulated by the elves through religion. I convinced them that I was a prophet of the Goddess Nara, sent to assist their creator, Stagross. I told them Nara gives me visions of the future, visions that—if followed—will earn them forgiveness for their past sins against Stagross.”

She paused, her voice hardening as she continued. “I told them if they harmed me, the Goddess Nara would rain death and destruction upon them. But if they spared me, she would reward them. I may have also claimed these visions are only granted to virgins, so if anyone touched me, my powers would be severed. You should have seen the chaos that erupted that night,” she added with a forced grin, the weight of bad memories clear beneath her attempt at levity.

“A female Mystic? You must have an incredible mind,” Max said, genuinely stunned and wishing to change the subject. He had heard only men could pass the rigorous tests, and he struggled to believe someone so small and unassuming could wield such intelligence. He found himself even more intrigued by her; she was unlike anyone he had ever met. The Mystics of the Phoenix Empire were legends—humanity’s most brilliant minds, dedicated to unravelling the world’s mysteries. From mundane matters like the growth of wheat to the hidden depths of the mystical arts, there was nothing they wouldn’t study. Max had even heard of their research on soil, determining what made crops grow best in certain regions—a tedious subject to Max, though undoubtedly valuable.

“I wouldn’t say ‘incredible,’” she replied modestly. “My magical ability is mostly limited to healing, along with a few other tricks I’ve learned. My real strength lies in my knowledge of the old races, which I’ve used to help where I can.” Her eyes dropped to the ground, regret flickering across her face before her smile returned. “I saw you earlier, through the grass, though I wasn’t entirely sure what you were. You appeared as a Wraith—clad in the souls of the dead, spilling blood wherever you stepped. Honestly, I thought you’d come to kill me. It wasn’t until I saw you up close that I realised you were human. Your soul… it was unnerving, but then I saw another—someone of the Black Legion. That’s when I knew you couldn’t be a monster.”

Max remembered the times when those words had been used to describe him. Magic wielders often claimed he had the appearance of a monster when they looked at him through their arcane senses. They said his soul radiated death and suffering, a visage of carnage. Shaking his head to dispel the memories, Max refocused on the woman before him and chuckled lightly.

“I don’t even know your name,” he said, his tone softening. “Mine is Max. What should I call you, miss?”

“My name is Mesial Mystic, Anna of Truestar,” she replied with a gentle giggle, extending her hand. “Though you may call me just Anna. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Max.”

Her hand was small and delicate in his grasp, and the size difference made him chuckle again. He noted the title “Mesial Mystic” with interest—it marked her as one of the highest-level students, those on the brink of mastery but yet to decide their final discipline. The use of “Truestar,” the name of the ruling family of that kingdom, suggested she was a peasant from those lands. Yet, her Mystic training had clearly elevated her, lending her the noble bearing that now contrasted with her worn state.

“Max, I don’t suppose you can help me, can you?” Anna asked, her voice dropping slightly as her gaze held his. “They see me as their Priestess. They listen to my guidance, but they refuse to let me leave. I can’t stay here in this dark place any longer—it’s killing my soul.”

“I’ll do whatever I can to help,” Max said firmly, though he admitted, “I’m not sure what I can do short of killing everyone here. Got any less violent ideas?”

He realised, somewhat guiltily, that he still held her hand but didn’t let go. The touch was comforting in a way he hadn’t experienced in over a century. For her part, she seemed content to hold his hand as well, even as she pressed her lips together in thought and shook her head, making her vibrant red hair sway.

“I honestly don’t know,” she said with a wry smile. “I was hoping you’d think of something.”

“You never told me what brought you here,” she added, tilting her head curiously.

Max hesitated for a moment but decided honesty—at least partial honesty—was best. “I was hoping you could tell me,” he admitted. “I received a letter that spoke of a woman in the clutches of a warband who needed help. The letter begged me to find you, claiming you could guide me to a place of importance.”

As he watched her reaction, he saw her brow furrow in genuine confusion. She pulled her hand away as she frowned, her concern evident.

“I don’t understand,” she murmured. “I don’t know of any such place, and I wasn’t aware anyone knew I was alive. Who sent this letter?”

“It didn’t say,” Max replied. “But it bore the Emperor’s seal and included information about me that no one else should have known.” He paused, still uneasy about how the sender knew of his oath to Chris, a secret he’d carried alone since that fateful day.

“The Emperor, Orion?” Anna asked, her surprise evident, brushing her hair behind her slightly protruding ears, making Max think she must have elven blood. Max nodded. “He was the one who funded our expedition—an expedition even the Mystics refused to support.”

“Where were you heading?” Max pressed. “Surely you knew how dangerous it would be to step foot on Scarvo.”

“We did,” she admitted. “But the answers I sought were too important to ignore. As I mentioned before, I’m an expert on the old races. One race has fascinated me more than any other—a people known only as the Vanishing Voices.”

Max blinked. “I’m sorry,” he said, frustration colouring his tone, “but I don’t think I’ve ever heard of them.”

Anna’s face softened. “Oh, I thought they were a common myth,” she said. “No worries—I love teaching. In fact, I always imagined I’d become a teacher for other Mystics when I earned the rank of Zenith.”

Her easy smile made Max’s lack of knowledge sting even more. He had always struggled with academics, his mind better suited for battle than books. The Legion had trained him well, but words on a page often blurred together, and lectures left him restless. Still, he nodded for her to continue.

“You’re clearly a man of the West,” she remarked, studying his glowing green eyes. “I assume you’ve visited the Iron City and seen its grandeur?”

Max nodded again. He had visited the city countless times, though he failed to see the beauty she described. To him, the capital was a cesspit of crime and political intrigue, filled with too many people and too much filth. He had always hated it, especially during his rare visits after Liam reclaimed the throne.

“Well, while the Iron City is our capital now,” Anna explained, “humanity’s original capital was elsewhere in the Iron Hills—a place now called Fallen Hope. That city was lost during the rise of the Mountain Slayer, Liam Ironheart the Second. After he became King, he needed a new seat of power and revealed the Iron City. Some stories say he summoned it from the mountains themselves, though Mystics have proven the city predates his birth. In fact, parts of it predate humanity’s very creation, reaching back to the First Age of this world.”

She leaned forward slightly, her passion for the subject evident. “Mystics have scoured the Iron City for answers about its creators. Eventually, we found traces of a previously unknown race. This race built the city, but they abandoned it before ever settling there. Similar traces have been found in other locations across Eden—cities, fortresses, and great works of art, all left behind for others to claim. They build, then vanish.”

Max found himself captivated by her tale. It sounded like myth, yet if a Mystic believed it, there must be some truth to it. Max had, of course, heard the Tale of the Mountain Slayer—its story deeply intertwined with the history of his people—but he couldn’t recall anything about Liam summoning cities in their version of the tale.

“Over time, I pieced together a timeline of their movements,” Anna continued. “While studying a ruined temple in the Red Sea on Phantom Star, I discovered what I believe to be one of their latest creations, though it had been reduced to rubble by human hands. If I’m right, they built it around the time the Empire was forming, when many races fled Eden to escape the Nameless God, leaving us to fight him alone. If I’m right again, the race must have crossed the Red Sea, landed on Scarvo, and moved inland. From there… well, I can only guess.”

Max stared at her thoughtfully. “Perhaps that’s where you’re meant to guide me—to where the Vanishing Voices went.” That must be it, it cannot be a coincidence they had both come to Scarvo under the orders of the same emperor.

Anna frowned. “But why? If they left, the location would be empty.”

“An empty structure is priceless to the skal,” Max said. He thought of the letter again, the shadowy figure who had set him on this path. Someone was using him, and he didn’t like being a pawn. Still, he told Anna about the skal, about killing Darius, and about their desperate bid to escape to the Thousand Daggers.

“Even if this wasn’t why I was sent,” he said solemnly, “the skal need my help. I owe them a home. Will you guide us? Afterward, I’ll take you back to Eden. You have my word as a man of the West.” He swore, hoping she would not push to know why the note wanted him to find this city in the first place.

“I can guide you,” Anna agreed, though she looked troubled. “But we’ll have to deceive the hounds. I’ll tell them I’ve had a vision from Nara of great treasure and that she demands we work with you. I’ll promise them silver and blood—they only act when both are offered. But if we can’t deliver, they’ll turn on us. We’ll need a plan.”

“I promise you, Anna,” Max said with quiet intensity. “I won’t leave you with these beasts. If it comes to it, I’ll kill every one of them myself. You’re not alone anymore.”

He had not intended to sound so impassioned, making the towering warrior feel uneasy about his outburst. Her smile was soft and grateful, her gaze bright with an emotion that made him want to look away.

Silently, he studied her, noting the features that set her apart—slightly slanted eyes, slightly pointed ears, fiery red hair unlike anything he had ever seen. She reminded him of an elf, though her Truestar heritage made that unlikely as no kingdom hated elves more than they. Perhaps she was a half breed or simply a vain magic wielder, altering her appearance to hide her true self. Either way, she was alluring in ways Max couldn’t deny.

Anna returned to the others, intent on whispering her fabricated vision into the ears of Fetris’s mates, knowing they could influence him. Meanwhile, Max headed back to the camp, his thoughts churning, caught between determination and unease. The mix of curious and hostile stares from the hounds as he passed did little to settle his mood. With a quiet sigh, he sought out Chris, who stood motionless, watching the chaotic festivities of the camp.

“I wish I could really talk to you,” Max muttered. “You’d be making crude jokes about Anna right now, no doubt. Probably telling me all kinds of twisted things you’d want to do to her, then going over and charming her with that cocky grin of yours. Somehow, she’d agree to whatever weird shit you proposed, and I’d hate you for it while still being impressed. And let’s not forget—you’d throw in some jab about how my dick is wasted on me.” A bitter smile twisted his lips at the memory of their old camaraderie.

Chris turned to face him, his expression as blank as ever. “Is that what you want me to do? I can say those things if you wish,” he offered, his voice lifeless and devoid of the sharp wit it once carried.

The reply hit Max harder than he expected, sadness flaring in his chest. “No,” he said quietly. “What I want is for you to tell me how we get out of here with the girl. They think she’s some kind of prophet—how do we take her if they refuse to join the convoy? How do we avoid bloodshed?” Max stared into Chris’s fiery-red eyes, searching for even a flicker of the friend he once knew. But Chris merely stared back, blank and uncomprehending.

“I am unsure,” Chris finally replied. “Just fighting our way out would be the best. Me and the others are under your command; we will not fail you.”

Max sighed heavily, his frustration mounting. Whatever spark of brilliance had once shone in Chris’s mind had been extinguished, leaving only a shadow of the man he had been. Max felt a flicker of guilt—should he keep his promise to his old friend or end his tortured existence? Before he could sink further into despair, an idea struck him.

“Tell me, what do you know about hounds and the way their packs work?” Max asked abruptly. Chris responded immediately, as if a switch had been flipped.

He outlined the intricate hierarchy of the hounds. At the top was the strongest warrior, the undisputed leader of the pack. Below him were his mates, led by the Top Mate, who managed the camp in his absence and acted as a spiritual guide, interpreting omens and signs as messages from the Gods. Then came the leader’s pups, his bloodline and honour guard. They were said to be the once favoured children of the God Stagross—a deity still worshipped by some humans, second only to the Goddess Nara. Despite the waning faith in the Gods in the empire, both Stagross and Nara still held sway over large portions of mankind.

Chris’s description turned darker as he detailed the hounds’ brutal mating practices. The strongest males took as many females as they could, breeding them whether they were willing or not. A fertile female was fair game unless she already had a mate, in which case her partner was given one month to impregnate her before she became “available” again. Considering they favoured Nara Max was not surprised, the Goddess was adamant a woman without a swollen belly was as worthless as a man without a sword.

Chris even mentioned rumours about human females taken by the hounds, their fragile bodies often unable to survive a single breeding rituals without their insides being torn apart. The grim image of Anna, or the captain’s daughter she had spoken of, tore apart rushed through Max’s mind. He cut Chris off sharply, unwilling to hear more.

“All of that information is very useful,” Max said dryly, his tone laced with self-deprecation. “Makes me wish I knew how to read. Maybe I’d have spent more time studying books instead of smashing skulls.” He glanced at Chris instinctively, expecting a sharp retort—a jab about his lack of brains or a quip about how he could barely wield a sword properly. Both of them had always known the truth: while Max’s swordsmanship was incredible against the common soldier, it was rudimentary compared to the mastery his brothers possessed.

Max had earned his place in the Legion not through finesse, but through relentless hard work and his Master’s teachings. His raw strength and surprising speed, paired with the crushing power of his warhammer, had proven unstoppable against even the most elegant fighting styles. It was a path forged through brute force, not artistry, and Chris had never let him forget it.

But now, there was no sly remark, no grin of shared camaraderie. Chris simply stared at him, his expression empty. The familiar pang of grief struck Max’s chest, the hollowness of loss settling in once again.

He pushed past it, focusing on the task at hand. “You mentioned the strongest warrior leads them,” Max said, his voice tightening as he shifted gears. “How does that work? Can any warrior challenge him, or is there some kind of rule?”

Chris shook his head. “No. The leader must initiate the challenge. If he sees disobedience or senses a challenger among his ranks, he will act to reaffirm his dominance. Should he feel confident, he’ll send his pups to deal with the threat. If he’s uncertain, he’ll challenge them himself. If the challenger wins, they assume leadership. Afterward, the pack allows further challenges until the next moon, at which point the new leader’s position is secure.”

“So, only a hound can lead them?” Max muttered, his frustration growing. “That’s inconvenient. I could just challenge Fetris to a fight and take control myself.”

“Only a hound can lead them,” Chris confirmed. “However, if an outsider defeats their leader in single combat, the pack becomes indebted to him. They must serve him in hopes of gaining his strength and wisdom, until one among them can defeat him in single combat.”

Max’s grin spread slowly as the idea took root in his mind. He stepped closer to Chris and kissed his old friend’s forehead before clutching his face with both hands. “I know you don’t have one anymore, but I love your fucking brain.”

Chris blinked in confusion but didn’t resist. Max didn’t care—he was simply grateful for the solution, even if it came with risks. For now, he would stick to Anna’s plan, trusting her insight into the hounds’ nature.

The night passed slowly, with Max refusing to sleep, relying instead on his stored energy to fuel his body. He and his guards maintained a vigilant watch, ensuring the fragile promise of safety was upheld. From time to time, he noticed three female hounds—no doubt Fetris’s mates—circling between him and Anna. Two of them bore swollen bellies, their eyes glinting with cunning as they whispered into the hulking chieftain’s ears. At first, Fetris appeared enraged by their words, his snarls echoing in the camp, but gradually, his anger subsided. The females’ persuasive promises of treasure and glorious bloodshed clearly worked their magic. Eventually, Fetris raised his massive arms and bellowed a speech so impassioned that even Max could feel its primal allure. He vowed rivers of silver and oceans of blood, claiming these spoils had been seen in visions.

Minion, standing nearby, audibly squawked in frustration before storming off, shooting a venomous glare at Max. Confused by the outburst, Max caught Anna sneaking over to his side moments later. With a wide grin, she leaned in and whispered, “He’s agreed.” The triumph in her voice was palpable.

Max wanted to track down Minion and demand an explanation for his reaction, but the camp’s sombre tension quickly transformed into revelry. Barrels of Root of the Mountain were cracked open, the pungent scent of the thick red liquid wafting through the air. Even the enormous hounds began drinking heavily, their endurance allowing them to consume more than their weight in the brew. Max, curious but cautious, decided to sample it. The sour taste, reminiscent of rotting apples, made him wrinkle his nose, though it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Anna practically wrapped herself around Max’s left arm as the two sat near a smaller fire, slightly removed from the main party. At first, her touch froze him, his instincts pulling him back to The Way. In his younger years, he would have recoiled instantly, pushing her away without hesitation. Now, however, he was older—and lonelier. The warmth of her presence was too tempting to resist. He hated admitting it, even to himself, but the feeling of a beautiful woman holding him stirred something long buried. Though The Way forbade him from lying with women, it never said anything about letting one hold him. It was a technicality he clung to.

After he overcame his hesitation, they were joined by three skal and two hounds. Anna introduced the hounds as her “loyal bodyguards,” though Max thought them more like prison guards. Despite the language barrier, the skal and hounds had a rudimentary understanding of the old tongue, having served the Midnight Kingdom in the past. Their conversations were often punctuated by mistranslations, but the potent ale smoothed over any misunderstandings, leaving them giggling like children.

At first, Max avoided drinking too much, wary of dulling his senses in such a dangerous place. The Way had always warned that drinking led to weakness. But Anna, along with their newfound allies, insisted he relax—just this once. Reluctantly, he gave in. It didn’t take many tankards before he found himself as drunk as the skal had become after their first sip. For the first time since leaving Kindled Wake, Max laughed freely, the heavy weight of his responsibilities momentarily forgotten. Even Rod appeared, sneaking a small sip before collapsing into Anna’s lap. She didn’t seem to mind; in fact, she appeared strangely at ease among these strange companions.

Hours later, emboldened by drink and the warmth of camaraderie, Max boasted loudly, claiming to be a brilliant musician. His declaration was met with sceptical cheers and demands for proof. Smirking, he called for Chris to retrieve his violin, bragging about the adjustments he’d made during their travels. Once the instrument was in his hands, he stood, his drunken confidence unmatched, and began to play.

The song he chose was The Song of the West, an ancient, triumphant tune synonymous with the Children of the West. Though originally a human anthem, it was popular among outsiders as well. The melody carried the weight of history, a connection to the Iron Hills where humanity had first been forged. As Max played, he turned, observing the mix of curiosity and enjoyment on the faces of his unlikely audience. Encouraged, he glanced at Chris.

“Sing along, you miserable bastard!” he shouted over the music.

At first, Chris stared blankly, but slowly, his lips parted, and he began to sing. His voice, though technically perfect, lacked its usual fire, as if he were reciting rather than performing.

“Alone we thought, wrong we were, a world beyond the Hills,” Chris sang, his tone devoid of passion.

The lifeless delivery dampened Max’s enjoyment—until another voice joined in. He turned to see Anna singing with a grin on her face. Her voice, while not flawless, carried a raw beauty that complemented the song’s spirit. Her enthusiasm seemed to breathe life into Chris’s performance, and Max felt a flicker of emotion return to his friend’s tone.

“The knocking came, the prince was mad, the end had come for man!” they sang in harmony. Max swore he heard a spark of the old Chris in that moment. Around them, others began clapping and stomping in time with the music, their laughter mingling with the song.

“Raised us up, he cut them down, he slayed our mountain hall!” Max joined in, his voice rough and tuneless compared to theirs. But no one seemed to care, as his skill with the violin carried the performance.

“Here we stand, here we die, the Mountain Slayer comes!” The three humans practically shouted the words, the title reverberating with pride and reverence for one of humanity’s greatest heroes.

“We will fight, till the end, nothing will hold us down! The West shall rise, the Phoenix rule, nothing shall stop the war! The West shall rise, the world will bend, the Gods shall face our wrath! When time comes, we shall die, for Death is beautiful! Here we stand, here we die, let them hear our roar!”

With the final verse, all three roared like lions before bursting into laughter. For Max, the song carried memories of a time long past. The last time he had sung it was during the charge into the Midnight City, his army chanting the death hymn as they marched toward glory. The words spoke of humanity’s resilience, its rise from the depths to unparalleled heights. Even the Gods had once feared the might of the West and the warrior race that dwelled there.

The song began anew, this time joined by some of the hounds and even a few skal. The voices of three races merged in a chaotic symphony, their drunken voices creating an oddly beautiful cacophony. As Max played on, he couldn’t help but wonder: did the creatures singing alongside him understand the meaning behind the words? And if they did, would they still sing so joyously?