Chapter 2
A Hunger Returns
The Skal entered a frenzy of activity over the remaining two weeks, right up until there were just two days left before the ships were due to arrive. The small creatures worked themselves to the bone, becoming so exhausted that, after a few days, their productivity was halved. Six more were added to their number of dead. Helping as much as he could, Max kept the same schedule as the creatures. While physically he didn’t feel the strain, even he—despite years of brutal training—grew sloppy and began making mistakes. Every night before bed, Max thanked the Mother and Father that none of his errors had cost the lives of his new companions.
The hard manual work continued to hold hints of enjoyment for Max. It reminded him of his younger days, trained in a similarly brutal manner and surviving only through sheer determination and the camaraderie of his brothers. Though the Skal were far from his noble and rowdy brothers, they shared the same drive and determination to complete their tasks. Over time, this grew into a sense of camaraderie, even with the difficulty they had in conversing.
Lacking the ability to replicate their squawks, Max couldn’t speak their language. However, he’d begun to understand its rhythm. The sound itself wasn’t the language—it was the tone and the duration of the notes they held. He learned that emotions were tied to different types of squawks. When the sounds resembled a swan, the Skal were angry or violent, almost as if raising their voices. When the sound was more like a robin, it conveyed sadness or fear, as though they were whispering. Their standard tone didn’t remind Max of any bird he knew, but it most resembled the cooing of a proud pigeon.
His companions slowly worked on their Imperial, though they found it difficult to produce the sounds. After much effort, Max asked if they spoke any other languages. He learned that it was very rare for Skal to speak another tongue fluently. They struggled to produce the sounds other races made, often finding them nonsensical, as there was no singing or beauty in those languages. To their ears, all other speech sounded brutish and simple.
Max took on the job of leading one of the work groups, teaching them how to transport large stones more easily from the destroyed buildings. If the mules couldn’t pull the stones, Max shattered them with a pickaxe. The buildings were made of stone and a strange white chalk that Max had never seen before. They weren’t elven structures—elves always built with living trees and plants. These houses seemed haphazard, as though made from whatever materials were at hand.
The young child who had given Max the spyglass had taken to following him everywhere he worked. The boy was terrible at hiding, often giving off a noise akin to a giggle whenever Max caught him. He learned the boy’s name was Rod, a name that confused Max. However, his companions eventually explained, with some difficulty, that Skal didn’t use names. They relied on scent to identify one another and saw themselves as a collective, not individuals. The different elven Houses reacted to this in various ways—some gave their Skal hives collective names, while others refused to name them at all. House Sorbus, Darius’s kin, had insisted that their Skal have individual names like civilised folk. They provided a list of names meant to bring honour, forcing the Skal to use them. Max didn’t have the heart to tell them that Rod meant rodent, something Minion surely must have known.
When Max slept, his mind wandered. He dreamed of his home in Kindled Wake. He saw the clear, open skies, where few birds dared to fly as the phoenixes ruled the skies. He saw the waterfall of Lake Compendance, where he had met his master most mornings. Almost half the lake’s edge was sheltered by a stone overhang. The crystal-blue water mirrored the rocks above, and the droplets that dripped into the surrounding pool tasted incredible. He missed Kindled Wake deeply and longed to return, to once more belong.
During the days, when he wasn’t distracted by work, Max found himself wondering about the warband mentioned in the letter. He was unsure what the letter expected of him. The Skal claimed they had seen no warbands since their arrival, yet the note insisted he would find one here. The author of the letter occupied his thoughts often. Was it a trap? An old friend reaching out to him? These questions remained unanswered, leaving Max restless as the days passed.
Knowing the town would soon be flooded with inhabitants, Max could no longer linger and prepared to leave the next afternoon. When he looked at the work they had accomplished, anger stirred within him, and he struggled to force it back down. Minion had decided to focus on finishing what they had already started. They had cleared paths connecting the three gates of the town, the harbour, and much of the civilian housing around the port. They had even begun constructing rudimentary defences, mainly debris piled to deter predators. However, despite their exhaustive efforts, they hadn’t been able to clear the manor house that had been thrust upon them, nor had they connected the wealthy district to the main roads.
Max had warned there would be repercussions for this, but Minion insisted Darius’s brother was a fair Autem who would understand. He also claimed Darius was unlikely to inspect the town’s progress before his brother arrived. Still, Max’s instincts told him to be uneasy with the word unlikely.
After packing his meagre possessions into his bag, Max added a small cloth bundle of dried meat Minion had given him. Among the rubble, he had also found a violin and couldn’t resist taking it for himself. He decided to bring the axe he had used during the tree-clearing, still determined not to use the blade hidden in his pack. As he prepared to close the bag, his eyes lingered on the small pouch carefully nestled at the bottom, its presence a bitter reminder of a promise he had made.
Max decided to leave that night, unwilling to wait any longer for a sign. He would march into the Northern Waste and find the warband the hard way. To his surprise, the Skal organised a small celebration—or the best they could manage. They gave him the largest piece of unidentifiable meat they had and water so clear he could almost see his reflection in it. The small creatures patted his leg and shook his hand, a gesture Max found odd as he hadn’t seen them do it before. Minion later confessed he had taught them the human gesture in hopes of coaxing a smile out of Max.
Max couldn’t help but grin at his unlikely friend. Over the past two weeks, they had grown close, an unexpected bond forming between them. Each night, they shared food and spoke about their vastly different worlds, carefully avoiding cultural disagreements they both knew neither would back down on. Instead, they focused on their upbringings or the day’s challenges. Max often spoke of his early training, refraining from mentioning that he had been trained as one of the Black Legion. No doubt, Minion had heard the dark legends about the Legion. Minion, in turn, spoke of his own childhood, explaining how his above-average intelligence had quickly elevated him within the hive. Even the leaders recognised his sharp mind and stepped aside graciously to let him lead.
“Is that why you’re so good at languages?” Max asked.
“Oh no, although it probably helped me learn faster. I was in charge of the main Sorbus foundry beneath the Midnight City—you call it the Midnight City, yes? I oversaw the slaves, training the new ones and coordinating efforts. With so many different races, both slaves and free creatures, I had to pick up their languages; otherwise, nothing would ever get done. If there’s a creature on Scarvo, I can probably have a civil conversation with them. Most weren’t talkative, though—particularly about taking orders from someone as small as me. The humans, however, were quite talkative, which is why I know your language so well.”
“So how many humans did you know? You speak as if it were your native tongue,” Max asked, though he was unsure if he wanted the answer.
“Many—too many to count. I’m ninety-six years old, born and raised during the height of the Immortal War. There was a constant influx of human prisoners in those years, especially when I was a child, before the humans began outsmarting the elves.”
Minion’s words surprised Max. It was well known that many of the Old Races were practically immortal, their lifespans limited only by the strength of their souls. Some lived over a thousand years or more. Certain humans had a variation of this gift. Many of Max’s brothers had appeared youthful even into their final days, though human immortality was a fickle thing, tied to bloodlines or magics. The oldest man Max had ever seen was over three hundred—the Second Sword of the Legion, the Old Man.
“You might be surprised to know my age too. Most are,” Max said teasingly. “I’m one hundred and forty—or thereabouts.”
Minion’s shocked expression made Max grin. Even humans often doubted his age, as his appearance was that of a man in his mid-twenties or early thirties. He considered telling Minion the truth behind his youthful appearance but decided to leave him wondering.
“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you? An old man in a young man’s body, a great warrior, and an expert tree-cutter. At this rate, you’ll be a prophet of Kai,” Minion said with a laugh.
“Trust me, there’s nothing holy about me. I’m just a man who’s made some very stupid decisions and survived through luck,” Max replied, thinking back to the countless times he had nearly died.
“Perhaps I should start calling you Kai’s Champion. I’m sure I could find you a big pointy hat and a flaming sword,” Minion joked, though Max worried he might be serious.
“Don’t call me that. If you make me the prophet of that prick, my first order will be for you to go fuck yourself,” Max replied dryly.
“Whatever you say, Your Holiness,” Minion said with an exaggerated bow, causing Max to hurl the cleaned bone from his meal at him. Both laughed.
“So, do you have any other skills—something less manly?” Minion teased.
Max’s face reddened, an uncommon occurrence. “I can play the violin,” he muttered, avoiding Minion’s eyes.
Minion’s shock was palpable. “I must hear you play! That would make my year.”
“It’s ridiculous, I know. Part of my training included learning an instrument. It was supposed to teach us commitment to a task and improve our finer hand movements. Most of my brothers chose loud, obnoxious instruments—drums and horns. I chose the violin.” Max chuckled, remembering Chris hammering on a drum like an ape, only to get smacked by the Old Man. “I’m actually quite good at it. My only issue is my singing—I sound like a drowning cat. One of my brothers always had to sing whenever I played.”
“You always say brothers but never their names. Are you... are you a man of the Black Legion?” Minion asked, his tone cautious as he studied Max.
Max nodded, unsure how Minion would react.
“I’ve heard countless stories about the Black Legion. But musicians? Never. Butchers, though...”
“We weren’t mindless butchers,” Max replied, his voice firm. “We were men trying to protect our people, no matter the cost. Or rather, they are—I’m no longer one of them.”
Max pictured the Legion in all their glory. Crowds in the tens of thousands would rush to see them whenever they marched, drawn by fascination and awe. They were the oldest bastion of humanity, standing at the vanguard of every conquest, destroying all that had come before. It was not widely spoken of, but the emperor’s bloodline originated from the homeland of the Black Legion in Kindled Wake. Even now, the Ironhearts continued to breed with women of the Legion, sharing their powerful bloodline and strengthening the Legion’s ranks. It was entirely possible, Max mused, that he shared distant kinship with the emperor himself.
“Is it true the Black Legion is descended from phoenixes?” Minion asked, his voice laced with curiosity as his head tilted slightly.
“No,” Max replied with a chuckle. “At least, not as far as I know. The phoenixes do nest in our lands, and they’re on our banners. Many of us see them as more holy than the gods. There are even rumours we’ve… mingled with them,” he added with a smirk, “but seeing how hot they burn, I can’t imagine putting my dick anywhere near one.”
Minion let out a birdlike squawk that might have been a laugh, and Max grinned, his mind briefly returning to the memory of the magnificent creatures. The phoenixes were not only the symbol of the Legion but also of the Empire itself.
“Where do you live then? Or should I say, where did you live?”
“A place called Kindled Wake,” Max began, his tone softening. “It’s a vast region surrounded by mountains, with only two passes and a small river leading in. The south and north are dense with trees and wildlife beyond imagining, while the centre is rolling hills as far as the eye can see. It’s… magnificent.”
His eyes took on a distant gleam as he continued. “My ancestors had a practice: whenever they conquered a land, they’d bring back its creatures and release them into Kindled Wake. Most didn’t survive, ill-suited to the environment. But those that thrived? They’d often wipe out native species and become the new deadliest predators. My people would hunt them, train against them, turning Kindled Wake into not just a home but a proving ground.”
Max’s voice lowered, tinged with reverence. “There are mysteries there that even I don’t understand. The Pale Men who roam the forests, disappearing without a word when approached. The lake of Compendance, a vast expanse in the south, said to claim the unworthy with a creature that drags them to the depths. And my favourite… the Smiling Man. They say if you walk the woods alone without your brothers, he’ll appear and corrupt you. Twist your soul until you perform the most depraved acts, all for daring to think you could survive this world alone.”
Minion listened intently, his fascination clear. “It sounds… terrifying.”
“It was a brutal land,” Max admitted, “but I loved it. I used to thank the Mother and Father every day that I survived there. As I got older, though, I realised it wasn’t divine favour keeping me alive—it was our training. Centuries of carefully selecting the strongest and most skilled to breed, forging not men but weapons of war. We were honed through relentless drills, fighting with sharpened steel from a young age, and beaten bloody until we learned to fight properly.”
He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Even the land itself trained us. The freezing winters and blistering summers. The predators that made even the strongest of us hesitate. But in the end, we made them fear us.”
Minion’s expression shifted, his intrigue mingling with unease. “You almost speak like you loved it… but it sounds awful. I don’t understand. That place sounds worse than anywhere I’ve ever lived, and yet you’re smiling, like it was some great adventure.”
“You’re right,” Max said simply, his grin widening. “I loved it. Every brutal moment of it. Because there, I had purpose. I knew who I was and where I belonged. In Kindled Wake, it was us against the world. We had our disagreements, but at the end of the day, we were united. We didn’t have parents. We didn’t have families. We had our brothers. For twenty-one years, they were my world. We fought side by side, bled together, trained together. And because we had each other, nothing else mattered. Not the pain. Not the trials. As long as my brothers were at my back, I was unstoppable.”
His voice trailed off, his smile fading. Max didn’t need to say what was on his mind. For ninety years, he had known where he belonged. Now, that sense of purpose was gone. He was alone. The silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken.
Minion seemed to sense it too. He didn’t speak, didn’t press. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, watching Max with something close to sympathy. Max wondered, not for the first time, if the Smiling Man would come for him now. After all, he was alone.
Rod appeared later with another gift for Max: a golden coin. One side bore the image of a phoenix with green eyes, eyes that matched Max’s own. The other side displayed six smaller symbols resembling the great families that ruled under the Emperor back home. Max could scarcely believe the boy had found something like this in Scarvo, where such coins would be seen as heretical. These coins, called boons, were the most valuable currency, traded only among Lords. Max smiled and thanked the boy; it comforted him to hold a piece of home in his hands.
Reaching into his bag, Max decided the boy deserved something in return—something not scavenged from ruins. He pulled out a small copper ball, its weight solid despite its size. Engraved across its surface were intricate, seemingly random patterns. Max set the ball on the table and spun it. As it turned, the patterns shifted, forming the image of a small bird in flight, its wings flapping, leaving delicate trails of flame behind.
Rod’s eyes widened in fascination as he watched the image repeat. The ball had been crafted by a friend with minor magical talent, both as a gift and to show off to Max. After a moment, Max picked it up and handed it to the boy, offering a rare smile. Rod took it eagerly and ran off to show his friends his new toy, his laughter echoing faintly through the ruins.
“What will you do?” Minion asked, watching Rod disappear into the distance. A faint grin broke across his beak.
“In truth, I don’t know,” Max replied, his gaze lingering on Rod as the boy played. “I was given a vague destination and an unclear task, and I’m not sure about either. For now, I’ll head north into the Waste. There are fewer elves there, so I should be able to walk freely. After that...” Max’s voice trailed off as he considered his next words. “Part of me wants vengeance. A bloody vengeance at that. Another part of me simply wants to keep a promise I made to my brother—a promise I’m not sure I’m strong enough to keep. Too many choices for a mere man to make. And part of me... part of me just wants to die. But I’m far too stubborn to go without a fight.”
Max’s voice was steady, his face emotionless, but the weight of his words lingered in the air. What he didn’t say—what he couldn’t yet admit—was that it wasn’t only stubbornness keeping him alive. The promise of a new purpose, even one he couldn’t fully grasp, kept him moving forward.
“I won’t pry into your affairs,” Minion replied, his tone gentle but firm. “But I would suggest finding something other than slaughtering an entire race to fill your time. The war is over, Max. You’re the only one still fighting it. You need to let it go. Return home, where you belong. Your brothers will take you back—I’m certain of it.”
Max finally turned to meet Minion’s gaze, his glowing green eyes alight with fiery rage barely held in check. His voice dropped, low and menacing.
“Whether I take revenge or not, the war will never be over. Not as long as I stand.”
The way he spoke chilled Minion to the core, the words haunting and sinister. He visibly shivered as the rage simmering just beneath Max’s surface seemed to threaten the very room around them.
“And I am not alone,” Max added, his tone heavy with the weight of a promise.
The celebration didn’t last long, as there was still work to be done. While his small friends returned to their tasks or grabbed what little sleep they could before their next shift, Max prepared to leave. He chose not to say goodbye, preferring to leave things unsaid. After packing his bag, he made his way towards the sewer entrance, ready to leave the town behind forever.
As he neared the exit, raised voices carried through the tunnels from the small eating area. Max halted, his instincts sharpening as he recognised the old tongue. His blood boiled at the sound.
“You have overstepped! Leon came to inspect your work and found the manor unfinished,” Darius barked. His voice dripped with venom. “Do you know what else he found? None of you working! He found you here celebrating with a human—singing and partying as if he were one of you!”
Max edged closer, keeping to the shadows. Peering around the corner, he saw Darius holding the blade of his finely sharpened sword against Minion’s throat. Behind him stood three more elves, their weapons drawn and watching the crowd of Skal with cold amusement. Max’s hands clenched into fists, his instincts urging him to act and cut these elves down. Yet, he had sworn to let Minion handle his own affairs.
“I swear, Master! We didn’t know he was human. He tricked us and ran south. If you hurry, you might still catch him—” Minion’s desperate lie was cut off as Darius kicked him hard in the chest, sending him sprawling into a stack of books. Stepping over him, the elf pressed his boot to Minion’s throat, applying pressure as the Skal gasped for air.
Guilt stabbed at Max’s heart as he watched. This was his fault. The Skal had been celebrating his departure. He had known they should prioritise clearing the manor, but he hadn’t pushed hard enough. His vision began to blur red, the axe at his side calling to him like a siren song. Its melody was seductive, whispering that it would be so easy to act. Max knew the truth of combat: while the average elf would best the average human, it took only a skilled man like him to turn the tide. He and his brothers had carved through the elves during the Immortal War, their superior speed and strength meaningless against trained warriors. Even now, Max knew he could disembowel them with little effort.
But he had sworn to let Minion decide his own fate.
This is not my decision. This is not my decision, Max chanted in his mind, trying to suppress the rising rage. His arms quivered, red veins crawling along his skin. A familiar voice whispered in his mind, dark and commanding.
“Consume them. Make them yours. Take their souls as your prize.”
The tidal wave of bloodlust made Max’s body tremble uncontrollably. His vision swam, and he felt as though he would either vomit or combust. Desperate, he gripped the axe and drove its blade into his leg, slicing open a deep wound. Blood sprayed as pain cleared his mind, giving him room to breathe.
“You worthless creature,” Darius sneered, oblivious to Max’s internal struggle. “You know all too well what a human is, and yet you fed and drank with one as if he were a comrade! Humans stole everything from us—and from you! And still, you aid them? When I’m finished with you and this pathetic hive, you will remember your place! Clearly, burning your children wasn’t enough to make you learn. Maybe this time I’ll flay your young alive and leave their squirming bodies at your feet! Perhaps then—”
A low growl echoed through the sewer, cutting Darius off mid-sentence. Max rounded the corner, snarling like a beast, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth. He stalked forward, radiating unrestrained fury, his glowing green eyes fixed on Darius.
The elves faltered. Their grins faded, replaced with wary unease. Fear mingled with the desire for blood in their eyes, but it was a pale shadow of the rage emanating from Max. For a moment, silence hung heavy in the room.
“Finel herm!” Darius snarled, ordering his companions to gut him. The three elves moved as one, their movements swift and fluid, blades gleaming in the dim light.
Max welcomed them. Time slowed as he entered the trance, his body moving as if it were no longer his own but a weapon honed to perfection. The rage fuelled him, sharpening his instincts without clouding his mind.
The first elf lunged forward, confident in his speed. Max threw his hatchet towards him, but the elf easily deflected it mid-air. The two others followed close behind, advancing with deadly precision. Max retreated into the narrow tunnel, forcing them to attack him one at a time.
The middle elf reached him first, thrusting his blade in a blur of motion. But Max was faster. He sidestepped, grabbed the elf’s sword arm, and squeezed until bone shattered beneath his grip. Wrenching the blade from the elf’s hand, Max slashed it across his face, leaving a deep, bloody gash. The elf crumpled to his knees, clutching his ruined face.
The second elf leapt over his wounded comrade, his blade arcing down in a powerful strike. Max raised his stolen sword, catching the blow and stopping it dead. With a roar, he forced the elf’s blade into the stone ceiling, pinning it there. Before the elf could react, Max grabbed him by the throat and crushed his windpipe, leaving him choking and writhing on the floor.
The third elf hesitated, his confidence wavering as he watched his comrades fall. He circled warily, waiting for Max to strike first. Max obliged, locking their blades together before using his strength to hurl the elf backwards. He stumbled over the body of his companion, falling to the ground. Max advanced, driving his blade through the elf’s mouth and out the back of his head before slicing the top half of his skull clean off.
Max turned back to the wounded elves, jamming his blades into their hearts to end their suffering. He pulled the swords free with ease and turned his blazing gaze on Darius.
“Do you remember me?” Max growled in the old tongue, his voice low and menacing.
Darius’s eyes widened in horror as he stared at Max’s glowing green eyes. “No… you can’t be. They promised you were destroyed. The Wraith of the West?”
“I was,” Max said coldly, his voice like steel, “but now I’m just a man, here to take your ear, then your life.” His words were sharp and deliberate, though in truth, he was not entirely set on his decision.
His eyes shifted to Minion, searching the creature’s gaze for something—approval, perhaps, or reassurance. Speaking in Imperial, Max addressed him directly, hoping the young Autem Midnight elf would not sully himself by learning such a "vile" tongue. “You were right,” Max admitted, his voice low but steady. “I’m a broken man, consumed by vengeance, but I gave you my word, and I intend to keep it. So, it’s time for you to decide.”
Minion’s eyes widened in shock, but Max gave him no time to respond. Without hesitation, he rushed forward to engage Darius. The elf’s stance betrayed him immediately—he was no seasoned warrior. The moves were there, but the precision and instincts of true battle were not. Max felt a wave of anger, mingled with disdain, as he realised how foolish it had been to consider Darius a threat.
The elf’s strikes were wide and obvious, his defences sloppy and riddled with openings. Max exploited them with ease, landing small cuts and shallow wounds, enough to punish but not to kill. He toyed with the elf, keeping him alive longer than he deserved as he waited for Minion’s decision. Each clash of steel echoed with a bitter truth: Max could have ended this farce at any moment, but he couldn’t break his promise. Darius’s life, however worthless it might seem, was not his to take without permission.
Max’s mind wavered as he fought, the weight of his existence pressing down on him. He was a warrior who should have died on the battlefield long ago. If he survived this day, he would bring only more death, more destruction, in his endless search for purpose. This could be his moment to die, to join his brothers in the afterlife, yet his honour and his oath kept him fighting.
The battle raged on, each strike harder to control as his rage bubbled to the surface. The curse within him whispered promises of release, urging him to unleash his full power and end it all. Just as he reached the edge of his restraint, a voice cut through the chaos.
“Do it,” Minion said, his voice calm and resolute, without a hint of hesitation. “You have my permission.”
For a moment, Max froze. He could scarcely believe what he had heard. The words echoed in his mind, and the storm within him broke loose. His rage, long held in check, now drove him to act.
Max moved like a shadow, sidestepping a desperate thrust from Darius and bringing both swords down with devastating precision. The elf screamed as his hand was severed, blood spraying in arcs across the room. Tossing the swords aside, Max grabbed Darius’s left hand as it rose feebly to strike, catching it in a crushing grip. With his free hand, he drove a punch into the elf’s wrist, shattering bone with a sickening crunch. Darius stumbled, his cries of pain sharp and shrill as he fell to the ground.
Max loomed over him, his hand wrapping around the elf’s throat like a vice. He hoisted Darius to eye level, staring into his pale, panicked face, before gripping his ear with his other hand. With a violent twist, he tore the ear free, ripping away a chunk of flesh and skin along with it. Blood spurted from the wound, painting Max’s face as the elf’s screams turned into pitiful squeals.
“Tell Lady Death,” Max growled, his voice low and venomous, “the Wraith sends his regards.”
With a final surge of strength, Max’s grip tightened. He felt the delicate bones in Darius’s throat shatter beneath his hand. The elf’s body convulsed and twitched, his life slipping away as his pale skin turned blue. Finally, his struggles ceased, and Max let the lifeless body fall to the floor like a discarded rag.
A strange stillness settled over the room, broken only by Max’s heavy breathing. He felt it then—an unseen energy rising from Darius’s corpse. The air around him shimmered as the same ethereal glow rose from the bodies of the elf’s companions. Their souls, wreathed in a faint, otherworldly light, drifted toward Max like a swarm of moths drawn to a flame.
The souls entered his body one by one, and Max felt a strange sensation take hold. It was as if their very essence fused with his own, expanding his being, making him stronger. The hunger within him stirred, appeased for the moment but far from satisfied.
Max stared down at the bloody form beneath him, refusing to meet the eyes of the Skal around him. The red haze behind his vision began to fade, and at last, he could breathe again. The crushing pressure on his heart lessened, though the desire for death, the longing his soul had carried since the end of the war, lingered faintly. Yet, something else stirred within him—a power he had once known all too well, rising in his heart like a dormant flame.
When Max finally looked up, unable to bear the sight of his work any longer, he noticed the Skal were not staring in horror as he had expected. Instead, their faces held an expression he had not seen in years: admiration. Their eyes glimmered with awe, like children awaiting a command. It reminded Max of the way his people had once looked at Emperor Liam IronHeart III.
“Why didn’t you kill me?” Max asked, his voice even and steady as he turned to Minion.
“I don’t know,” Minion admitted, his head tilting slightly as he stepped closer. His eyes shone with the same fascination as the others. “I should have. And now, there will be suffering because I didn’t. I’ve set in motion the same death and destruction Slug did.”
“Then put me in chains,” Max said coldly, his tone growing hard. “Take me to the elves. Tell them you captured me after I killed Darius. It won’t be as good as my original plan, but it’ll work. I’m sure of it.”
Minion shook his head, his small fists clenching at his sides. “I don’t know where we go from here, but I’m not handing you over to be tortured and killed. You worked with us, you ate with us, and now you’ve killed for us. If we turn on you, we’ll prove we are the pathetic scum he believed us to be. I’d rather die than bring my people that low.”
Minion turned towards the others in the room, squawking commands in their tongue. Max couldn’t understand the words, but it was clear there was little debate. Any Skal who protested was immediately silenced by Minion and the others. Within moments, the Skal sprang into action, scavenging the bodies Max had left behind, stripping them of everything valuable. Others dashed out of the room, urgency driving their movements.
Minion turned back to Max, his voice sharp and decisive. “We can decide what to do later, but right now, we need to act. The rest of the elves will be at their encampment near the southern entrance to the city. We must deal with them before they come looking for us. We’ll alert the rest of the hive and attack together. With enough numbers, we might win the fight.”
“No,” Max said firmly. “I won’t have you rushing in to die for me.”
Minion glared at him, his eyes narrowing. “I decided to back you, and if we’re going to do this, we need to do it with all our hearts. You said it yourself—‘size doesn’t matter when there’s a dagger in your throat.’ We need to eliminate them quickly. Then, we’ll gather our dead and theirs, burn them on a large pyre, and make it look like an attack wiped us all out. That should stop them from hunting us, as they’ll assume we were slaughtered by some unknown enemy.”
Max opened his mouth to argue, but he couldn’t deny the logic of the plan. He gave a firm nod, though he remained resolute on one point. “I’ll deal with the elves myself. You and the hive focus on gathering everything of value and preparing the pyre. Use the bodies of your fallen workers if you must. That should convince them you’re all dead or enslaved. Once you’re ready, meet me at the south entrance. We’ll loot their camp for supplies, then decide our next move.”
“You can’t take on an entire camp of elves alone,” Minion said, his tone incredulous. “They know a human is here, and they’ll be on guard. Even the greatest warrior in the world wouldn’t survive if just one of them gets lucky.”
Max’s gaze burned with quiet confidence. “I told you before—I’m not alone. Do as I say and leave the elves to me.”
For a moment, Minion hesitated, his body tensing as if he might push back. But Max’s unwavering certainty silenced him. Finally, he relented with a nod, though his curiosity lingered.
“At least tell me where your reinforcements are,” Minion said cautiously. “If they’re far, we don’t have the time to wait.”
“They’re here,” Max replied, his voice calm but resolute. “Try to remain calm—I’ll explain when we’re away from here.”
Max raised his left hand, and the air in the room shifted. Energy surged around them, the ground darkening as five large shapes began to materialise. Flames licked at the stone floor as fiery hands burst forth, their clawed fingers digging into the earth. Slowly, figures pulled themselves from the ground, their bodies alight with fire and shadows. The room grew still as the last traces of their emergence faded, leaving no sign of the earth they had clawed through.
Darius and his three elven guards now stood naked, their eyes void of life but filled with a burning hunger. They turned towards Max and Minion, silent but unmistakably alive, their fire-lit forms casting dancing shadows on the walls.
A single naked man stood amidst the elves, his green eyes burning with the same intensity they had in life. Chris.
