YAN

  “We should have waited,” Azrael said, his voice tight with frustration. “Ari is on his way, and a great army comes with him.”

  Yanick’s right hand felt like it was on fire, the throbbing ache seeping deep into the bones with every movement. The steel gauntlet that encased it was both a curse and a blessing—more a reminder of what he’d endured than a protection from the pain. But it had become his companion, his constant. And then there was the vodka. It had been his remedy for far too long now, ever since that first bitter sip in the night, when the fire burned in his throat and the world blurred just enough to make it bearable.

  He tipped the bottle back, savouring the burn as it slid down his throat, a welcome sting. It didn’t burn like it used to. It was more of a tickle now, but it still did the job. Numbed the pain, dulled the edges of his thoughts. This batch, made by the workers from the copper mine they’d taken over last week, was better than any he’d tasted. Still, the taste didn’t matter. Not anymore. They all served the same purpose—killing the pain.

  “This is the right time,” Yanick replied, his voice sharp, even in the face of the doubt.

  His gaze swept over the battlefield. He was the Divine Wolf. He was never wrong.

  The siege had stretched into its third day. His army had been relentless, churning through enemy lines, but it wasn’t enough. Yanick had always believed that the best battles were the ones fought in quick, decisive strikes, but this was different. This fortress needed to fall now, before Luc’s army arrived to stake their claim. Every moment they wasted brought that distant thunderous rumble of reinforcements closer.

  And that was a sound he couldn’t afford to hear.

  Masters in the academy used to say sieges could last for weeks, months if needed. But Yanick didn’t have that luxury. His men had already given too much. They couldn’t afford to waste another day on this crumbling stone bastion.

  He stood on the upper platform of one of the three siege towers they’d built, the wooden structure groaning under the weight of the battle. The trebuches and catapults, their immense mechanical arms stretching high into the sky, pelted the fortress walls with stones, their impacts echoing through the valley. The walls were thick, the mortar nearly unbreakable, but it was only a matter of time. They’d weakened it, cracked it open like a rotting fruit.

  Azrael stood beside him, watching the chaos unfold. His eyes narrowed, doubt creasing his brow. The older man’s weathered face seemed to carry more questions than answers as he stared at the fortress.

  “If we keep pushing like this...” Azrael's voice trailed off, his words hanging in the smoke-heavy air.

  Yanick turned his gaze back to the fortress. The walls were still standing, but he could see the cracks forming. Not yet enough to crumble, but soon. He could almost taste it, the coming victory, the scent of blood and sulphur, the promise of what would follow.

  He breathed in deep, ignoring the burn in his ribs, and turned his head slightly to glance at Azrael, the weight of leadership in his eyes.

  “I don’t need Ari’s army, Azrael. I need this fortress now. With minimal losses. And we will take it.”

  The next wave of stones sailed over the water pit, crashing into the fortress wall with a thunderous roar. The impact sent cracks spider-webbing across the stone, but it held, stubborn as ever.

  “Fire again!” Yanick’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and unwavering.

  The order was a whip crack, and the next volley followed, followed by another. The air vibrated with the force of the catapults as they unleashed their payloads, each stone a harbinger of destruction.

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  The outer defences of the fortress were crumbling now, the stone battlements breaking apart like brittle bone. Chaos erupted within the walls, soldiers scrambled, trying to reinforce the breaches, but it was too late.

  Rhythm of battle had shifted. Now, it was just blood and grit. Every inch of ground gained was paid for in sweat and death. The soldiers surged forward, cutting through the wreckage, carving their way deeper into the heart of the stronghold.

  Yanick felt the heat of the flames, the sting of blood in the air, and the pulse of his own heart matching the violence of the assault. There was no turning back now. The fortress was falling, and he was about to claim it.

  The siege tower groaned as it rolled forward, dragged through mud and ash by dozens of Yanick’s men, their faces slick with sweat and soot. Arrows whistled past them, some striking the wood with dull thuds, others finding flesh. No one cried out. They had bled too much for pain to matter now.

  The tower slammed against the fortress wall with a bone-jarring jolt. A heartbeat later, the bridge dropped with a thunderous clang.

  The Nordlings surged out like a flood.

  They poured onto the ramparts screaming, snarling, blades raised high. Their war cries drowned the hiss of arrows and the roar of fires below. Yanick was the first to cross, steel gauntlet clenched around the hilt of his sword, right wrist burning like it had been dipped in molten iron. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. He pushed through, shoulder first, into the fray.

  A defender tried to block him. Yanick let his bad arm drop and caught the man across the face with the edge of his left blade. The crunch of cheekbone under steel echoed through his skull. The boy folded, and Yanick stepped over him.

  Azrael was beside him, carving a path through the defenders like a blade through wet cloth. His halberd sang through the air, splitting men open at the waist, dragging their guts across the stone.

  “Push forward!” he shouted. “No mercy!”

  The wall was chaos, screams, firelight, blood soaking into the mortar. Men grappled and slipped, tumbling off the edge into the black below. Yanick barely noticed. Another soldier came at him with a spear. Yanick parried with the steel gauntlet, pain raging through finger right up to the elbow. He took the blow to the arm, and buried his sword into the man’s throat.

  He was the Divine Wolf, and this wall was his den now.

  But then a hammer struck his side. He staggered. Another hit glanced off his shoulder. Then something slammed into his helmet. Light exploded behind his eyes.

  The sky tilted. The world spun.

  And then there was only darkness.

  *

  He held the knife, blood dripping down. Ademund on the ground. Amaia screaming. Rayla satisfied. The rest of the band satisfied too, mission accomplished. Partially.

  Big Mike looked at him as if he knew.

  The moon looked as if it knew.

  *

  A howl pierced the air. One of the Faithful warlords was charging down the stone steps, flanked by a dozen of his best soldiers. The man was a mountain. Wide shoulders, a thick mane of black hair, his axe raised high.

  And Yanick was the one on the ground now.

  But felt it again. The same feeling that first came when he was put to the impossible choice by Rayla, then on the training yard when he had to win over the men who were dying for him on this very day.

  He surrendered to this feeling again. It was a force with a mind of its own. It knew what to do before, it will know what to do now.

  No thinking. Just movement.

  Yanick lunges forward, fire eating his wrist, steel gauntlet screaming against bone. The warlord sees him. Smiles. That smile of a man who’s already won in his head. Like it’s over. Like Yanick’s just another body to step over.

  He charges, left side leading, because the right is just pain and more pain wrapped in iron. His breath’s a snarl. His ribs tight. His shoulder already leaking.

  The warlord swings. An axe big enough to split a horse. It whistles through the air like a sermon, like judgement.

  Yanick twists, feels the blade kiss his armour, draw blood. Doesn’t matter. He’s already moving. Already swinging. His short sword, clutched in his left hand, aimed for gut-meat.

  Clang.

  Blocked.

  The warlord’s blade bats his strike away like he’s swatting flies. The shock rides up Yanick’s arm, a lightning bolt straight into the ruined wrist.

  But he’s not stopping. No pause, no breath. He’s in the red now. Eyes wide. Everything raw and twitching. He hits again. Again. Drives forward with elbows and hate.

  No thinking.

  Just blood and angles.

  The sword waits in his left hand. This time Yanick is ready too.

  The warlord comes down with another swing. Pure rage and steel.

  Yanick drops. Low. Slides under. Feet slipping on blood. His left hand grabs an ankle. Flesh, bone, momentum.

  Warlord doesn’t wear steel. Just a padded jacked over linen shirt.

  Yanick drives the sword upward. Into ribs. Buries it to the cross-guard.

  The warlord screams. The sound punches the sky. Echoes over the wall.

  Time holds its breath.

  Yanick doesn’t. He yanks the sword free. Stumbles back. His vision is snow. His chest is a furnace. His wrist is… No, screw the wrist. It’s not even part of him now. Just this howling thing riding on his arm.

  He’s still alive. Still standing.

  No rest. Not here. Not ever.

  The enemy closing in. Their numbers overwhelming. But he is the Hound hungry for blood.

  “With me!” Yanick screams and leads the charge.