Korrak met him head-on, steel flashing against shadow, the weight of his blade clashing against something that should not have been there.

  It was like striking air wrapped in iron.

  No resistance—until there was.

  A sharp pulse cracked through Korrak’s skull, not from the impact, but from something inside him.

  Then—

  The world broke apart.

  Korrak’s boots slammed into frozen ground.

  His breath came out in thick plumes of steam, the scent of blood and burning steel filling his nose.

  The roar of battle surrounded him, a chorus of war cries and dying men, the kind that didn’t just come from the throat—but from the soul.

  It was a siege.

  An ancient city burned in the distance, its spires shattered, its walls crawling with warriors clad in armor black as the void.

  And Korrak was standing in the center of the slaughter.

  Blade in hand.

  Surrounded.

  A spear shot for his throat.

  Korrak twisted, parrying with the flat of his blade, the impact rattling his bones.

  Before the attacker could recover, Korrak stepped in, grabbed his wrist, and wrenched—

  Bone snapped.

  The faceless warrior howled, but Korrak had already brought his sword up, carving through collarbone, rib, lung.

  Hot blood spattered against his chest.

  The man gurgled.

  And then he collapsed.

  Another warrior came from behind.

  Too fast. Too precise.

  Korrak barely turned in time, catching the glint of a curved blade swinging toward his ribs.

  He sidestepped, but not fast enough.

  The edge bit into his side.

  A shallow cut.

  But he felt it.

  His grip tightened.

  He grabbed the attacker’s wrist, twisted it backward until he heard the pop—

  Then sank his teeth into the man’s throat.

  He bit down until he tasted copper.

  The warrior screamed, but Korrak did not let go.

  He tore, ripping flesh, spitting the blood back in the man’s face.

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  Then he drove his sword upward through his gut, past the ribs, into the heart.

  The warrior shuddered.

  And then he fell.

  More were coming.

  So many more.

  And none of them had faces.

  “You should remember this,” the Hollow King’s voice whispered.

  It was not loud.

  It did not need to be.

  It was inside him.

  Korrak slammed his boot into the chest of the next attacker, sending them sprawling, blade flashing as he cut through another.

  The Hollow King’s voice continued.

  “This was your war.”

  A hammer came down.

  Korrak rolled aside, feeling the impact shake the bones in his teeth.

  He drove his blade upward, carving a gash through armor, through flesh, through the soft places beneath.

  The warrior collapsed, but there were more.

  More than he could count.

  And none of them stayed dead.

  Korrak felt his breath hitch.

  He had seen massacres before.

  He had caused them before.

  But this—

  This felt different.

  Wrong.

  The bodies piled up at his feet, but the faces did not stop shifting.

  Each one, the same at first—featureless, hollow—

  And then, slowly, as they died—

  They took forms he knew.

  The first had his father’s eyes.

  The second had his mother’s nose.

  The third laughed like the first man Korrak had ever killed.

  And the fourth—

  The fourth was him.

  “You believe this is a trick,” the Hollow King said, his voice curling into Korrak’s skull like smoke.

  Korrak cut a man’s throat and moved on.

  “But what if it isn’t?”

  A sword tore into Korrak’s shoulder.

  Not deep.

  But deep enough.

  He snarled, turning into the strike, breaking his attacker’s arm, smashing their face into the frozen ground until teeth scattered like glass on stone.

  The Hollow King’s voice never wavered.

  “This is who you are.”

  Another slash.

  More blood.

  Not just theirs.

  His.

  “You were a king before, Korrak.”

  He shoved his sword through another faceless soldier.

  “I have given you a chance to be one again.”

  Korrak was breathing too hard now.

  But his hands never stopped.

  Cut.

  Break.

  Kill.

  Move.

  But he was slowing.

  The bodies were piling up around him.

  The air was thick with iron and fire.

  And the whisper was getting closer.

  “You can’t run from this.”

  A blade sank into Korrak’s ribs.

  He staggered.

  For the first time.

  And he hated himself for it.

  “You are not a slave, Korrak. You are a ruler.”

  A spear punched through his gut.

  He stumbled.

  Not far.

  But far enough.

  And he saw it then.

  For the first time.

  The throne.

  Rising from the battlefield like a jagged bone.

  Crowned in iron and memory.

  Waiting.

  Korrak gritted his teeth.

  His vision blurred.

  The battle would not end.

  Unless—

  No.

  No.

  The Hollow King was close now.

  He was beside Korrak.

  Watching him kneel.

  Not from submission.

  But from exhaustion.

  The Hollow King placed a hand on his shoulder.

  The battlefield went still.

  “You only need to say yes.”

  Korrak exhaled.

  His blood was thick in his mouth.

  His breath felt like fire in his chest.

  He felt the weight of it all.

  The battles.

  The roads.

  The endless struggle.

  And the offer before him.

  To rule.

  To end the wandering.

  To sit on a throne he did not want.

  But could never seem to escape.

  And then.

  He laughed.

  It was a short, sharp bark of laughter, but it was enough.

  Enough to break the stillness.

  Enough to crack the illusion.

  Enough to remind Korrak who the hell he was.

  He reached up, grabbed the Hollow King’s wrist—

  And twisted.

  Reality snapped.

  The battlefield vanished.

  And Korrak was back in the temple.

  The Hollow King staggered backward, head tilting, almost confused.

  Korrak was on his feet.

  Bleeding.

  Bruised.

  But alive.

  And angry.

  His grip tightened on his sword.

  “You think that’s enough?” Korrak spat.

  The Hollow King tilted his head.

  “I think it is only the beginning.”

  Korrak smiled.

  And lunged.