The wizard had been dead for a long time.
Korrak was certain of that.
The sorcerer’s bones lay sprawled beneath a collapsed archway, stripped of flesh and softened by time. His robes had rotted into brittle strips, the arcane sigils on them faded and useless. Even his staff—whatever gnarled, unnatural thing it had been—had splintered into shards, long since robbed of its power.
It was a typical end for wizards.
Korrak had seen plenty of dead ones. Some he had killed himself. Others had fallen victim to their own arrogance, undone by the very magic they wielded. And some, like this one, had simply died alone in their cursed little towers, thinking themselves eternal.
He stepped over the brittle remains, his boots crunching through ribs as he scanned the ruined sanctum.
The place had once been a grand chamber, but now it was a tomb. What had once been intricate stonework was now cracked and worn. The walls bore the faint remains of dying runes, still flickering with the weak pulse of old magic, clinging to life like a drowning man grasping at air.
And at the very center of it all—untouched by time, by dust, by ruin—sat the skull.
Korrak narrowed his eyes.
It rested atop the shattered ribcage, far too clean for something that had been left to rot.
Its smooth, polished surface gleamed unnaturally, like ivory rubbed to a perfect sheen.
And in its hollow sockets, two deep-cut rubies gleamed in the dim light, as if watching him.
Korrak crouched, tilting his head.
It was definitely cursed.
But the rubies were worth a fortune.
He reached down, wrapping his thick fingers around the bone, and pried the skull from the remains.
A faint pulse of magic crawled up his arm, a static-like tremor, barely noticeable.
Korrak grunted.
Nothing happened.
The wizard stayed dead. The skull remained silent. No curses leapt from the walls. No sudden explosions of ancient wrath.
Satisfied, he stuffed the skull into his pack.
That was his first mistake.
The skull waited.
It did not rattle in Korrak’s pack as he made camp for the night. It did not emit any eerie whispers as he gutted a rabbit and roasted it over the fire. It did not so much as twitch while he drank deeply from his flask, watching the flames flicker against the night sky.
For the first few hours, Korrak barely thought of it.
It was just another trinket of war, another stolen relic. He’d taken enchanted swords, cursed coins, blood-stained crowns—all valuable, all easily discarded.
If the skull was cursed, he figured it would make itself known soon enough.
So he ate. He drank. He settled onto the hard ground, stretching his legs out, crossing his arms, feeling the fire’s warmth sink into his battle-worn skin.
Then, just as sleep began to creep over him—
"I would have warned you."
Korrak’s eyes snapped open.
For a long, tense moment, he didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t react.
He simply sat there. Waiting.
Expressionless.
Unmoved.
Then, without looking, he reached for his flask and took another slow, deliberate sip.
"Most men don’t steal from the dead so thoughtlessly," the voice mused. "Then again, you don’t seem like most men."
Korrak sighed.
"Of course."
With slow, practiced motion, he reached into his pack and pulled the skull free.
It stared back at him.
Or rather, its ruby eyes caught the firelight, giving the deeply unsettling illusion that it was watching him.
Korrak rolled it over in his hands. No seams, no cracks, no mouth. The surface was still unnaturally smooth, cold against his fingers.
He turned it one way.
Turned it another.
No sign of speech.
No sign of anything.
Korrak frowned.
Then, without hesitation, he turned and hurled it into the forest.
The bone clattered violently against tree trunks and underbrush, bouncing into the night with a hollow thunk.
A moment passed.
Then, from somewhere in the darkness, the skull’s voice returned.
"That was rude."
Korrak exhaled sharply through his nose.
He reached into his pack.
The skull was inside it again.
It was the beginning of a very long night.
For the next hour, Korrak attempted—fruitlessly—to remove his unwanted companion.
By the time the sun crept over the horizon, Korrak sat beside the embers of his fire, half-drunk, half-irritated, rubbing his temples as the skull sat comfortably in his lap.
He glared at it.
It gleamed cheerfully in the morning light.
"You're cursed, aren't you?"
"Cursed is such a harsh word. I prefer ‘enchanted.’"
Korrak exhaled.
"And what exactly do you do?"
"I talk."
Korrak stared at it.
The skull offered nothing else.
He sighed, lifting it up, tilting it side to side.
"No magic? No secrets? No great power?"
"Well, I do have a vast wealth of knowledge, if you’d—"
Korrak tossed it back into his pack and closed it.
"No."
For the next several hours, the skull whispered indignantly from inside his pack, offering snippets of ancient prophecies, riddles of forgotten kings, warnings about an oncoming doom that would consume the world.
Korrak ignored all of it.
By the end of the day, the skull fell mercifully silent.
Korrak thought, for a brief, fleeting moment, that it had finally given up.
Then, just as he was setting up his next camp—
"So what’s our plan for tomorrow?"
Korrak punched a tree.
Korrak had dealt with many problems in his life.
Bandits. Warlords. Flesh-eating cults.
But nothing, he realized grimly, was as stubborn as this damned skull.
It was still talking.
"I could tell you many things, you know."
Korrak ignored it.
"Legends, secrets, the lost names of forgotten gods—"
Korrak kept walking.
"You’re not even the first man to carry me, though you are certainly the rudest."
Korrak gritted his teeth.
The skull, undaunted, continued.
"There was once a king—"
"No."
"A warlock—"
"No."
"An empire built on—"
Korrak suddenly ripped the skull from his pack and threw it as hard as he could into a tree.
It hit the bark with a sharp, bone-snapping crack, bounced twice, then rolled to a stop at his feet.
Korrak inhaled deeply.
The skull sighed.
"This again?"
Korrak stared at it.
The skull stared back.
Then, without a word, he picked it up and threw it into a river.
It floated back to shore.
Korrak stood on the bank, arms crossed, watching as the skull bobbed gently in the current, completely unbothered by the laws of nature.
It drifted toward him.
Korrak walked downstream.
The skull followed.
Korrak walked faster.
The skull sped up.
Korrak began to run.
The skull glided merrily alongside him, carried by the current like some grotesque, grinning piece of driftwood.
Korrak stopped.
The skull drifted onto shore at his feet.
He exhaled through his nose, knelt down, and picked it up again.
"You're doing this on purpose."
"I have no idea what you mean."
Korrak dug a hole.
A deep hole.
A hole so deep, he felt fully confident that nothing could possibly crawl its way back out.
He threw the skull in.
Then he filled the hole.
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Then, for good measure, he built a cairn of heavy stones over it.
Then, for even better measure, he built a second cairn over the first one.
Then, for extra, absolute, foolproof measure, he sat on top of the pile and drank an entire flask of mead, just to celebrate a problem well and truly solved.
Then he fell asleep.
When he woke up, the skull was resting comfortably beside his head.
"Morning."
Korrak rolled over and pretended it wasn’t real.
Korrak tied the skull to a horse.
Then he sent the horse running into the mountains.
The horse came back.
The skull was still tied to it.
Korrak untied the skull and tied it to a different horse.
He sent that horse running in the opposite direction.
The second horse came back.
Korrak stood there for a long moment.
Then he sent both horses running at once.
Both horses came back.
Korrak sat down.
Then, very carefully, he buried his face in his hands and groaned.
The skull, still strapped to the first horse, chuckled.
"Did I mention I once traveled with a philosopher?
Korrak threw a rock at it.
The skull could not be drowned.
The skull could not be buried.
The skull could not be abandoned.
Which left only one option.
Korrak built a fire.
A large one.
A great, towering inferno of flame and heat, hot enough to melt iron and char bone to dust.
He took the skull in both hands, stared at it for a long moment, and dropped it into the fire.
The flames roared.
The heat crackled and swirled, sparks flying into the night.
For a moment, the fire blazed unnaturally high, licking at the sky as if touched by some unseen force.
Then, as suddenly as it had risen—
It died.
The embers sputtered into nothing.
The flames collapsed into cold ash.
And sitting there, untouched, resting comfortably in the center of the blackened pit—
Was the skull.
Korrak inhaled deeply.
The skull let out a long, exaggerated yawn.
"That was cozy."
Korrak picked up a larger rock.
The chasm was deep.
Deeper than deep.
A great, jagged scar in the earth, lined with broken stone and spiraling downward into lightless, infinite black.
Korrak stood on the precipice, holding the skull over the edge.
"Any last words?" he muttered.
"You’ll regret this."
Korrak let go.
The skull plummeted into darkness.
Korrak watched it vanish.
Waited.
Listened.
Nothing.
No return. No voice. No cursed relic creeping back into his pack.
For the first time in days, he felt peace.
For the first time in days, he breathed freely.
For the first time in days—
"That was dramatic."
Korrak froze.
Slowly, mechanically, he turned his head.
The skull was sitting in his pack.
Waiting.
Watching.
Grinning.
Korrak exhaled sharply through his nose.
Then, very calmly, he lay down on the ground and stared at the sky.
The skull chuckled.
"You'll get used to me."
Korrak did not like villages.
He did not like their narrow streets, their whispering crowds, their stale, overcooked food.
He especially did not like the way people stared at him.
The suspicion. The unease. The thinly veiled fear that flickered across the faces of farmers and traders as they caught sight of his scarred frame, his hollow eyes, the massive sword strapped to his back.
But Korrak had long since accepted this as the way of things.
He did not belong among walls and laws.
He belonged where the wind howled and the strong survived.
Still—even a barbarian needed supplies.
And so, grudgingly, he stepped through the wooden gates of the town of Hallow’s Rest, intent on trading a stolen bauble for food and drink before moving on.
It should have been a simple thing.
It was not.
Because Korrak had forgotten one important detail.
The skull.
The trouble started at the blacksmith’s stall.
Korrak placed a rusted helm on the counter, nodding toward a whetstone and a length of chainmail.
The blacksmith—a broad, bearded man with arms like tree trunks—eyed him warily.
“That’s your trade?” he asked, tapping the helmet with a thick finger.
Korrak grunted.
The blacksmith snorted, unimpressed.
“Ain’t worth half the steel I’d be givin’ you.”
Korrak exhaled. He did not want to argue.
He reached into his pack to offer something better.
And the skull fell out.
It hit the wooden counter with a hollow clunk.
The blacksmith froze.
Korrak froze.
The skull, delighted, did not freeze.
"Oh, don’t buy from this one," it said cheerfully. "He cheats his weights."
The blacksmith went pale.
Korrak sighed.
It got worse from there.
Korrak picked up the skull, shoved it back into his pack, and walked away before the blacksmith could grab a weapon.
He needed food. A drink. Something to drown the rising irritation in his skull—
The literal irritation in his skull.
He stalked into the tavern, pushing past hunched locals, slamming a handful of silver onto the counter.
“Mead,” he growled.
The tavernkeeper—a balding man with a nervous expression— nodded quickly, grabbing a mug.
As he turned, the skull peeked out of the pack.
"Oh, I wouldn’t drink here."
The tavernkeeper’s hands shook.
Korrak stared at the skull.
The skull continued, voice dripping with amusement.
"This one poisons guests when they don’t pay."
The tavernkeeper dropped the mug.
The crowd stopped speaking.
The room fell silent.
Korrak exhaled through his nose, gripped the skull, and shoved it back into his pack.
Then he turned to leave.
And then the screaming started.
By the time he reached the village square, people were whispering.
They were pointing.
Mothers dragged children inside. Men averted their gazes.
Some muttered prayers.
Some made warding gestures.
Korrak ignored it all.
Until someone, somewhere, muttered the word.
“Death-speaker.”
Korrak stopped walking.
The skull perked up.
“Oh, I like that one.”
Korrak did not.
But it was too late.
The whispers spread like fire through dry grass.
"Death-speaker."
"He talks to the dead."
"He carries the skull of an ancient king!"
"No, a warlock!"
"No—Death itself!"
By the time Korrak reached the town gates, he could already feel it happening.
A legend was being born.
A story was taking shape.
And Korrak, despite his complete and utter lack of interest in such things, was at the center of it.
Again.
The guards at the gates did not stop him.
They simply watched in silent horror as he strode past.
By nightfall, the town of Hallow’s Rest was telling a new tale.
Of the Death-Speaker.
Of the barbarian who spoke to lost souls.
Of a man who walked between the living and the dead.
Of Korrak the Accursed.
Korrak sat beside his campfire, drinking heavily.
The skull snickered.
"You should embrace it," it said. "A reputation like that could be useful."
Korrak drank deeper.
The skull sighed.
"You’re going to be hearing that name for a long time."
Korrak tossed the skull across the camp.
It landed with a soft thud in the dirt.
Korrak laid back, stared at the stars, and wondered if it was too late to drown himself.
The skull, cheerful as ever, spoke once more.
"Sleep well, Death-Speaker."
Korrak gritted his teeth.
It was going to be a long road ahead.
Korrak sat by the fire, drinking heavily.
It had been a long day.
And the skull was still talking.
"I don’t know why you’re so upset."
Korrak exhaled slowly through his nose, watching the flames crackle against the cold night air.
He did not respond.
"You have an identity now. A myth. A presence. These things are valuable."
Korrak drank deeper.
"You should be honored! There are men who spend their whole lives hoping to be remembered."
Korrak set the flask down and rubbed his temples.
"Shut up."
"I’m just saying, there are worse things than being called a Death-Speaker."
Korrak let out a long, slow breath.
Then, without a word, he grabbed the skull and hurled it across the clearing.
It bounced off a tree, rolled twice, and landed in the dirt.
A pause.
Then:
"That was unnecessary."
Korrak laid back against the ground, staring at the sky.
"You never sleep, do you?"
"No."
A pause.
"Can you pretend to?"
"Also no."
Korrak sighed.
The skull snickered.
"Oh, Korrak. We have such a long road ahead of us."
A Few Days Later…
The rumors had already begun to spread.
Korrak could hear them in the villages he passed through.
Whispers. Mutters. Half-hushed voices speaking of the Death-Speaker, the Barbarian Who Talks to the Lost.
He ignored them.
He always ignored them.
But the skull?
The skull thrived.
"Did you hear that one? They think you walk the border between life and death."
Korrak kept walking.
"That group over there believes you can summon the souls of fallen warriors."
Korrak kept walking.
"Oh, that one thinks you’re a god of war and death reborn. You should really embrace that one."
Korrak exhaled slowly.
Then, without breaking stride, he grabbed the skull, threw it into a horse trough, and kept walking.
Three miles later, it was back in his pack.
"Really, now. You’ll have to do better than that."
It didn’t take long before someone decided that the Death-Speaker needed to die.
The bounty hunters came three nights later.
Korrak had barely settled into camp before he heard them.
Footsteps. Slow, careful movements.
Five men. Maybe six. Armed.
Trying to be quiet.
They failed.
Korrak didn’t move.
Didn’t look up.
He simply waited, watching the flames.
The skull, resting by his pack, was entirely too cheerful.
"Oh, look. New friends."
Korrak sighed.
The hunters emerged from the trees.
"Death-Speaker."
Korrak closed his eyes.
He hated this already.
The leader stepped forward, a scarred man with a rusted blade and too much confidence.
"You’re worth a lot of coin," he said.
Korrak looked at him.
The man’s grip tightened on his sword.
"You’ll come with us easy," he continued, "or we’ll take your head and the skull along with it."
Korrak glanced at the skull.
It was grinning.
"Oh, I’d like to see that."
The bounty hunter frowned.
Korrak sighed.
Then, without another word, he stood.
The first one died instantly.
Korrak moved fast, closing the distance in a heartbeat, burying his axe in the man’s chest.
The second one managed to scream before Korrak ripped his blade free and threw it into his throat.
The remaining four hesitated.
Korrak did not.
A boot to the knee. A sword through the ribs. A fist to the jaw, caving it inward.
The last one tried to run.
Korrak grabbed him by the hair, yanked him back, and sent him face-first into a tree.
The skull laughed.
"Oh, that was impressive. I rather liked that last one."
Korrak wiped the blood from his hands.
The skull sighed, almost wistfully.
"I do hope there are more."
Korrak kicked it into the fire.
By the time he reached the next village, the rumors had only grown worse.
"They say the Death-Speaker slew a dozen men in the woods."
"No, no, twenty men!"
"With a single word, their souls were torn from their bodies!"
Korrak gritted his teeth.
He passed through the village as quickly as possible, buying what supplies he needed before heading back into the wilds.
But the skull?
The skull was having the time of its life.
"Oh, Korrak. This is delightful. I can’t wait to see what they say about you next."
Korrak threw his pack onto the ground and kept walking.
The skull, still grinning, whispered one last time.
"Face it, barbarian. You’re stuck with me."
Korrak had had enough.
The bounty hunters, the whispers, the wide-eyed fools who saw him and made warding signs—he had endured all of it.
But when the Bleached Ones showed up, he knew this had to end.
They came three weeks after Hallow’s Rest, chasing whispers and rumors like starving wolves after a scent.
They called him the Hollow Prophet, the Bone-Father, the One Who Walks Between.
They painted their skin white, stripped themselves of earthly possessions, and knelt before him the moment they found his camp.
"We have heard your silence, Death-Speaker," the tallest one said, his bald, chalk-white scalp gleaming in the moonlight.
Korrak rubbed his face.
"I have said nothing."
The cultist beamed.
"Yes," he whispered. "And in your silence, we have heard everything."
Korrak considered hitting him.
The skull, infuriatingly entertained, hummed from his pack.
"Oh, I like these ones."
Korrak did not.
The Bleached Ones followed him for days.
They chanted his name.
They sang eerie, off-key hymns about the purity of bone.
They preached his so-called wisdom—which was particularly impressive, considering Korrak had still not spoken to them once.
Eventually, they built a massive throne of stacked skulls and ribs, dragged it into the woods, and begged him to sit upon it.
Korrak walked in the opposite direction.
The cult followed.
The skull laughed.
"You’re famous, Korrak."
Korrak gritted his teeth.
He had one last solution.
Korrak led them into the deepest part of the wilds, where no roads reached and no sane men dared tread.
The Bleached Ones followed without question.
The skull, smug as ever, whispered:
"Oh, this will be good."
And then—Korrak turned to face them.
Dozens of naked, paint-covered lunatics knelt before him. Waiting.
Hanging on his every breath.
He looked at them.
He looked at the skull.
He looked at them again.
Then, in a voice like thunder and iron, he spoke.
"I have been to the other side."
The cultists gasped.
Korrak continued.
"I have seen the realms beyond death."
"Tell us, Bone-Father!"
Korrak exhaled.
Then he pointed at the skull.
"It will tell you everything you need to know."
He threw the skull into the middle of the crowd.
The Bleached Ones screamed in ecstasy.
The skull yelped.
Korrak turned and walked away.
He did not look back.
Days passed.
The whispers died down.
The rumors faded.
Korrak moved on, wandering the land as he always had.
He bought new supplies.
He drank heavily.
For the first time in weeks, he slept without hearing a voice in his pack.
The Death-Speaker was no more.
The Bleached Ones were somewhere in the woods, probably worshiping a rock.
Korrak was free.
Until, one morning, as he sat by his fire, a familiar voice whispered from the shadows.
"Well, that was rude."
Korrak closed his eyes.
The skull grinned up at him from the dirt.
"You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?"
Korrak picked it up.
Stared at it.
Then, with a slow, deep sigh, he tucked it back into his pack.
"Shut up."
The skull chuckled.
"You missed me."
Korrak did not respond.
The fire crackled.
The wind howled.
And Korrak, as always, kept moving forward.
Korrak sees your admiration.
And he hates it.
He is not a hero. Not a legend. Not some specter that walks between myth and reality, meant to be whispered about in awe. He does not care for the songs, the stories, the drunken retellings of his deeds that twist and swell with each passing tongue.
If you had stood before him, clutching your reverence like a fool clutching a dull blade, he would have only stared. And then he would have walked past you.
Because to Korrak, it was never about glory.
It was about the hunt.
And if he still lives, it is only because there is always another chase.
