The winds howled across the frozen tundra, carrying with them a biting chill that would have carved through any other man.
Korrak did not feel it.
Not anymore.
He had left the temple behind, leaving the Hollow King kneeling in the dark.
And yet, the Hollow had not left him.
It clung to his thoughts, to his skin, to the way the world felt heavier now.
Something had changed.
And he hated it.
Sholvigg was still following him.
“You do not ask where we go, my lord,” the cultist said, trudging behind him, unshaken by the cold.
Korrak said nothing.
Because he didn’t know.
Because it didn’t matter.
He just needed to walk.
To put as much distance as possible between himself and what had just happened.
But the Hollow was not a thing that could be outrun.
By nightfall, they reached a village.
A small thing—wooden houses huddled together against the wind, the glow of firelight flickering through narrow windows.
The rooftops sagged under the weight of ice, and smoke slipped sluggishly from crooked chimneys, curling into the night sky.
Even from the outskirts, Korrak could feel the weight of eyes.
People watching from shuttered windows, faces half-hidden behind frost-glazed glass.
The tavern sat near the village’s center, a low, slant-roofed structure half-buried in packed snow, its sign hanging at an angle, swaying with the wind.
Korrak stepped inside.
The change was immediate.
The warmth of the fire did not welcome.
The scent of burning peat, old ale, and sweat did not comfort.
The silence did not feel natural.
Taverns were supposed to be loud.
Even in places like this—where the winter pressed hard against the bones of men, where coin was scarce and laughter scarcer—there was always noise.
But this place?
This place held its breath.
There were men at the long tables, hands wrapped around wooden mugs, heads bowed over their drinks.
A pair of hunters near the fire, furs stiff with frost, speaking in hushed voices.
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An old man sharpening a knife, the slow scrape of steel against stone the only sound cutting through the air.
And behind the bar, the tavern keeper watched.
Not openly.
Not obviously.
But with the sharp, quick glances of a man trying to pretend he was not staring.
Korrak did not knock.
Did not ask.
He stepped straight to the fire, shaking the frost from his cloak, and sat.
The tavern did not return to normal.
The air remained heavy.
The quiet remained too thick.
Korrak had walked into places full of killers before.
This was something else.
Something worse.
“Drink,” Korrak muttered to the tavern keeper.
The man hesitated.
A heartbeat too long.
Then he nodded, moving stiffly to fetch a mug from the shelves.
When he placed it on the counter, his hands trembled slightly.
Sholvigg sat beside him, smiling.
“These people know what you are,” he murmured.
Korrak drank.
“They don’t know shit.”
And yet—
An old woman made a sign against evil when she looked at him.
A man muttered something under his breath that Korrak didn’t recognize.
The two hunters by the fire stood and left, their faces pale.
Korrak’s grip tightened on his mug.
Something was wrong.
The tavern keeper spoke carefully.
“Are you—”
He stopped himself.
Korrak set his drink down.
“Am I what?”
The man’s hands tightened into fists, his knuckles pale.
“Are you a… warlord?”
It was not the question he wanted to ask.
But it was close enough.
Korrak looked at Sholvigg.
The fool was still smiling.
Korrak turned back to the tavern keeper.
“I kill men for money. That’s all.”
It was the truth.
Or at least, it had been the truth.
The tavern keeper nodded too quickly.
“Yes. Of course.”
And yet—
His hands still shook.
Korrak exhaled.
“What do you want?”
The man hesitated.
Then, finally—
“We need help.”
The village had a problem.
A warband had been raiding the ice, taking food, burning homes, leaving corpses half-buried in the snow.
They had come twice already.
And they would come again.
Korrak did not care.
Not at first.
He had fought a thousand like them before.
And he had never done it for free.
So when he said no, and when the villagers insulted him,
When they said he looked like a king but acted like a vagabond—
Something inside him snapped.
Fine.
He would kill them.
But not for the village.
For himself.
Because he needed to put a blade through something’s throat.
He tracked them down by dawn.
A band of twelve men, huddled around a campfire, sharpening steel, laughing about what they would take next.
Korrak stepped into their camp.
No warning.
No words.
Just steel.
The first man never even saw him.
Korrak’s sword split his ribs apart, slicing through leather, muscle, and bone.
The second lunged too slow, and Korrak grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off the ground before crushing his windpipe with one hand.
The others barely had time to draw their weapons before Korrak was among them, his blade cutting through flesh like it was made for nothing else.
It was not a fight.
It was a massacre.
Korrak did not just kill them.
He tore them apart.
One man tried to run.
Korrak hooked his sword under his knee and severed the tendon, watching him crawl in the snow before finishing him.
Another begged.
Korrak put his foot on the man’s chest and pushed until his ribs cracked.
The last one, the leader, came at him with an axe.
Korrak let him swing.
Let him think he had a chance.
Then caught his wrist mid-strike, twisted, and shoved his own axe back into his face.
The bone cracked.
The eyes bulged.
The body twitched.
And then—
It was done.
Korrak stood among the bodies, breath heavy, the warmth of fresh blood steaming against the cold.
And only then—
Did he realize his hands were shaking.
When he returned to the village, the people were not grateful.
They were afraid.
And when Korrak caught his reflection in a basin of water—
His eyes had darkened.
The Hollow was inside him now.
And he could not stop it.
