Ten years is a long time to nurse a grudge. For Prince Ragnar, it was a lifetime.He stood at the razor-edge of the Howling Crags, staring down through the swirling flurries of a northern blizzard at the glowing, fortified border outposts of the empire that used to be his birthright. A decade ago, the merciless Overlord Malakor had butchered Ragnar’s father, shattered their clan, and painted the grand marble halls of the royal palace in a thick coat of royal blood. The conqueror had thrown Ragnar into the freezing wilderness, leaving him to be consumed by the frost—a forgotten ghost of a broken dynasty.They thought they had extinguished his line. They were wrong.Ragnar adjusted the heavy, blood-drenched fur cloak resting across his massive shoulders. He wore no polished gold armor, no glittering crown, and no royal jewels. His towering frame was a map of jagged, brutal scars won from ten winters of surviving the most savage monsters and lawless tribes the northern wastes had to offe

The words hung in the smoky, blood-drenched air of the courtyard like a death sentence.By order of my father, Overlord Malakor…Ragnar couldn’t breathe. The massive, dark iron greatsword that had felt like an extension of his own arm for the last ten years suddenly grew impossibly heavy, its tip dipping toward the crimson-stained stone tiles. The roaring battle fury that had carried him through the ravine and broken the imperial shield-wall evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hollow void.He stared at the young executioner standing on the steps of the inner keep. The boy’s dark velvet cloak ruffled in the freezing mountain wind. The silver-plated armor caught the flickering orange glow of the burning barracks, reflecting light off the polished imperial crest emblazoned across his chest. But Ragnar wasn’t looking at the armor. He was looking at the face.The soft roundness of childhood was gone, replaced by the sharp, aristocratic angles of their father’s lineage. Yet the slight indent

The iron gate groaned under the relentless assault.BOOM.Every strike of the heavy imperial axes wielded by the barbarians sent violent vibrations shuddering through the reinforced frame of the fortress doors. Wood splintered beneath the iron plating; rivets popped out like deadly shrapnel, clanging against the stone steps. Ragnar stood at the front of the line, his blistered left hand tightly wrapped in torn, bloody linen to maintain his grip on his greatsword."Again!" Ragnar commanded, his voice raw.Torin and three of the largest berserkers slammed their stolen weapons into the central seam of the gate. With a deafening screech of tearing metal, the heavy locking mechanism inside the door finally sheared in half. The massive iron gates burst inward, crashing against the interior stone walls with a force that shook dust from the ceiling."Form line! Archers, release!" an imperial officer screamed from inside the darkened entrance hall.A volley of black-fletched arrows whistled th

The descent from the Outpost of Valis was not a march; it was a hunt.A brutal, blinding sheet of mountain ice tore through the eastern valley, burying the tracks of anyone foolish enough to tread into the white abyss. But Prince Ragnar did not need standard tracks. He could smell the ozone stench of corrupted imperial sorcery cutting through the clean mountain air. The spatial feedback of the ruptured portal had left a lingering, foul scar across the valley—and it pointed directly into the dense, black pines of the Ironwood Forest below."The wind is turning, Alpha," Torin rumbled, his massive boots sinking knee-deep into the fresh snow drifts. Behind him, the remaining two hundred and ninety-five barbarians moved in a silent, lethal column, their stolen imperial rations packed tight and their newly acquired iron axes slung across their broad shoulders. "If the boy was thrown into this storm half-conscious, the frost will claim him before the night ends. Even with imperial magic, a b

The heavy brass horns of the Seventh Legion sounded their mournful, retreating notes across the canyon. On the high ridge, the disciplined rows of iron-clad legionaries began to pull back in orderly, synchronized steps, their shields locked facing the valley floor as they withdrew into the swirling grey mist of the mountain pass."They're running!" Torin barked, wiping a streak of horse blood from his eyes with his leather-wrapped forearm. He spit into the crimson slush at his feet and raised his twin battleaxes, his chest heaving. "Look at them! Five hundred cavalry turned to dog meat, and their courage rots! Alpha, give the word! We hunt them down before they clear the ridge!"A chorus of feral, bloodthirsty roars rose from the three hundred barbarians. They slammed their weapons against their dented shields, eager to pursue the retreating imperial columns into the narrow pass."Hold!" Ragnar’s voice cut through the bloodlust like a frozen blade.He stood near the edge of the carnag