My heart hammers so hard, it hurts, bruising my ribs from the inside.
Torches flare to life, one after another, illuminating the approach. The soldiers’ faces are shadowed, made monstrous by the flickering light. Their eyes track me as we pass—hungry, curious, contemptuous. Some leer, their gazes dragging over me. Others look away quickly, ashamed.
A few spit as we pass.
I lift my chin higher and meet every stare that comes my way.
Let them look. Let them see I’m not afraid.
Even if it’s a lie.
Even if I’m so terrified, I can barely breathe.
The outer gate looms ahead, twice as tall as any building in Red Hollow, made of iron so black, it seems to drink the light. Wolves are carved into the metal, so realistic, they look ready to leap down and tear into flesh. Their eyes are inset with something that glows—amber or topaz maybe.
As we approach, a figure steps forward from the shadows beside the gate.
An orc woman, ancient and bent, wrapped in layers of dark fabric that make her look like bundled rags given life. Her skin is mottled gray and white, stretched tightly over bones. But it’s hereyes that make my breath catch—milky white, completely blind. Clouded over.
Yet she turns toward me. Seeing without sight.
The procession halts.
The chanting stops.
In the sudden silence, I hear my own ragged breathing. The crackle of the torches. The distant howling from inside the fortress.
Hadrun dismounts with practiced ease and walks over to haul me off the boar. My legs nearly buckle, numb from hours of riding. The chains make it impossible to catch myself properly, and I stumble forward.
He steadies me with a hand on my elbow, almost gentle. Then pushes me toward the old woman with significantly less care.
She raises one gnarled hand, fingers twisted. Someone—a younger orc woman in similar robes—presses a clay bowl into her palm.
Black ash. I smell it from here—burned bone and something else, something that makes my nose itch and my eyes water. Something wrong.
“Kneel,” Hadrun says behind me.
“No.”
His hand finds the back of my neck andpushes, forcing me down to my knees on the cold stone. The chains rattle as I try to catch myself. Pain shoots through my kneecaps, sharp and immediate.
The old woman steps closer, her movements slow but steady. She dips her fingers into the ash, coating them until they’re black to the second knuckle.
Then she starts muttering in a language I don’t understand—guttural and harsh, sounds that scrape against my ears andmake something in my chest tighten. The words have a rhythm to them, a cadence that speaks of age. Ancient.
She presses the ash to my forehead.
It burns.
Not hot—cold. So cold, my skin cracks. Ice spreads through my skull and down into my brain, freezing everything it touches. I gasp and try to jerk away, but Hadrun’s grip on my neck holds me in place, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
The old woman traces a symbol on my skin with deliberate strokes. Up. Across. Down. A rune carved into me even though there’s no blade.
A brand.
Property of the Iron Warlord.
The words echo in my head even though nobody’s said them.
