The Frosthold Mercenary Camp was a place for killers, thieves, and men who had long since stopped pretending they fought for noble causes.

  Tents sprawled haphazardly across the frozen earth, mud and ice mixing with spilled ale and dried blood. A few men were gathered around a smoking firepit, sharpening weapons, gambling, or simply staring into the flames with the dead-eyed exhaustion of men who had fought too many battles for too little coin.

  It was the kind of place where no one asked questions.

  And that was why Korrak had taken the job.

  It was also why he was currently drinking in silence, hoping the night would pass without incident.

  Of course, incident had other plans.

  The shiny bastard had been running his mouth since he arrived.

  Korrak had been here for two days, keeping to himself, listening to the mercenaries complain about the cold, about the food, about the next battle.

  Then, earlier that evening, the southerner had arrived.

  He did not belong here.

  Korrak had known it the moment he laid eyes on him—the man’s posture too straight, his armor too polished, his boots too clean for the filthy tundra they marched through.

  And, of course, he would not shut up.

  His name was Sir Valerian du Montclair, and he had made sure every single man in the camp knew it.

  By the time Valerian made his way to Korrak’s fire, Korrak had already seen it coming.

  Men like this always thought they had something to prove.

  And they always picked the wrong fight.

  Valerian strode forward, hands resting on his jewel-encrusted rapier, the silver blade gleaming against the torchlight.

  Korrak kept drinking.

  “You,” Valerian said, his voice thick with self-importance.

  Korrak did not look up.

  Valerian stepped closer.

  “I said, you.”

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  Korrak sighed and finally lifted his gaze.

  “Is that my name now?”

  A few of the nearby mercenaries chuckled.

  Valerian’s face twitched.

  “I have been watching you,” Valerian said, ignoring the laughter. “You fight well.”

  Korrak did not respond.

  “I, too, am a warrior,” Valerian continued, placing a hand on his chest as if that meant something.

  Korrak drank.

  “I trained in the finest dueling halls of the South. I was knighted in the Ivory Court. I have fought men across three continents and never lost a duel.”

  Korrak set his mug down.

  “Then fight men across four.”

  The mercenaries burst into laughter.

  Valerian’s eye twitched.

  “I challenge you,” Valerian said, drawing his rapier with a flourish.

  “To first blood.”

  Korrak tilted his head.

  “No.”

  The laughter grew louder.

  Valerian’s face darkened.

  “Afraid?”

  Korrak sighed.

  He didn’t have time for this.

  But if this idiot wanted a fight, he’d give him one.

  Just not in the way Valerian expected.

  Korrak stood, rolling his shoulders, shaking the stiffness from his limbs.

  Valerian grinned, assuming his stance, rapier poised like a needle.

  Korrak did not draw his sword.

  Instead, he stepped lightly to the side, his movements smooth, effortless—faster than a man his size had any right to be.

  Valerian lunged.

  Korrak was already gone.

  Valerian’s rapier shot past him—

  And into the shoulder of a nearby mercenary.

  The camp erupted into chaos.

  The stabbed mercenary—**a large, bearded brute—**let out a howl of rage, clutching his arm.

  Valerian’s face twisted in horror.

  “I—No, I—”

  Korrak simply stepped back, watching.

  Valerian wrenched his blade free, spinning back toward Korrak.

  He lunged again.

  Korrak moved again.

  This time, the rapier punched through the tunic of a man sitting near the fire, knocking his ale into the flames.

  The man turned, roaring in outrage.

  Valerian paled.

  Korrak grinned.

  “You fight like a shadow!” Valerian spat, breathing heavily.

  Korrak cracked his knuckles.

  “I fight to win.”

  Valerian charged.

  Korrak sidestepped.

  This time, the rapier clattered against the shield of a particularly large mercenary.

  The man stood, towering over Valerian.

  Valerian’s face went pale.

  The mercenary cracked his knuckles.

  “Alright,” the brute rumbled. “That’s enough of that.”

  Valerian turned to run.

  He didn’t get far.

  By the time it was over, Valerian had been thrown out of the camp—literally.

  The mercenaries had dragged him to the edge of the firelight, stripped him of his polished armor, taken his coin, and sent him stumbling half-dressed into the frozen night.

  Korrak watched it all from his seat, drinking in silence.

  Shiny bastard.

  Maybe he’d survive.

  Probably not.

  Either way, it wasn’t Korrak’s problem.

  As Korrak settled back into his seat, one of the mercenaries—a grizzled man with a missing eye—sat next to him.

  “That was quick work,” the man said. “Didn’t even draw steel.”

  Korrak took another drink.

  “Didn’t need to.”

  The man chuckled.

  “You some kind of duelist?”

  Korrak snorted.

  “No.”

  “Then what are you?”

  Korrak set his mug down.

  “Efficient.”

  The mercenary grinned.

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  Korrak nodded.

  And finally, he got some peace.