Chapter 133: A Tale Of Hurts

As darkness fell upon Caerleon, chaos reigned. Across the war-torn streets, the battle surged like a living thing. Visionaries, clan warriors, and Norsefire troops clashed with brutal fervor. Steel rang against steel, sparks flying with every strike. Shields shattered. Armor cracked. Blood painted the cobblestones beneath the feet of the fallen—some already dead, others dying slowly under the weight of crushed lungs and split skulls.

For all the bluster and myth surrounding the Clock Tower's enforcers, they were being driven back. Outmanoeuvred. Outmatched. Their casualties far outstripping those of the students and resistance fighters. And though word of Sheriff George Hartshorne's fury spread like wildfire—his thunderous screams echoing through command tents—none of it seemed to matter. Astrea, the new Norsefire captain, was either absent or outright ignoring him, which only stoked his rage to a boiling point.

Elsewhere, the airship docks sat under heavy lockdown. Massive floodlights swept the tarmac as crates sealed in iron bands were offloaded by grunting men. The air reeked of engine fuel, ozone, and burnt steel.

Kerrick stood off to the side, arms crossed, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. It had been months since he last set foot in Caerleon. The stench hadn't changed. Nor had the choking haze that clouded the stars above. His tangerine-colored hair, short and ragged, stood out in the gloom like a beacon—just like the scar running down his cheek. The stubble on his jaw scraped beneath his glove as he scratched at it absently.

He didn't care who was fighting who. The Clock Tower, the Congregation, Norsefire, the clans—it was all noise. Between life in Revel's End and the illusion of freedom, Kerrick had chosen the latter. It didn't matter whose leash he was on, so long as it wasn't bolted to a cell wall.

A heavy crash snapped him from his thoughts. One of the crates had hit the ground hard, the wood splintering down one corner. Two dockhands stood frozen beside it; eyes wide.

"Oi!" Kerrick barked. "Careful with that! You dent the cargo and the big man's gonna line us up and snuff us like candles. That what you want?"

They shook their heads quickly, scrambling to recover the crate.

Kerrick sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Every damned time... I swear the Tower hires brain-dead goats and calls them muscle—"

He turned—and froze.

A figure stood there, just inches away. Young, lean, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and menace. Draped in the greys of an AEGIS Guardian, a massive greatsword rested across his shoulder, its edge glowing faintly like embers roused by breath. Kerric's eyes widened in recognition.

The stranger grinned. "Ello', guv'nor," he said with an exaggerated accent, cocking his head. "Lovely night for a stroll, innit?"

Kerrick's hand flew toward his sword.

Too slow.

A fist cracked into his jaw like a battering ram. The impact spun him halfway before he collapsed to the tarmac, blood in his mouth, stars exploding across his vision. From the ground, he dimly heard his men screaming—then the sound of fire igniting, and a blade howling through the air like a beast unleashed.

And then, silence.

****

Kerrick jolted awake as a bucket of ice-cold water crashed against his face. He gagged, water shooting up his nose, a sharp pain lancing straight into his skull like a rusty nail. His vision spun in a blur of light and motion. He coughed hard, head lolling forward—only then realizing he couldn't move. His wrists were cuffed tight behind him, his chest strapped to the back of a steel chair bolted to the floor. He jerked against the restraints, but they held firm.

"Wakey wakey, breakfast's ready."

The voice was familiar—too familiar. Kerrick blinked away the sting of water as his eyes focused on the man standing before him—tall, lean, and unmistakable, with mismatched eyes: one silver, one gold.

Bastion Reinhardt.

"Been a while, Stonejaw," Bastion said, flashing a lopsided grin. "You look like shit."

"Bastion, ol' boy," Kerrick wheezed with forced cheer. "A pleasure as always." He shifted his jaw. "But did you really have to hit so damned hard?"

"Shit's putting it lightly," came a graveled voice from the corner. Kerrick turned, just in time to see an older man step into the light. His bristled mustache twitched, and his eyes narrowed like a hawk circling prey.

"Heard you got locked up," Frank said. "Trafficking stolen goods. Running Shimmer through the outer rings. That's enough to throw you in a hole and lose the key. And yet… here you are."

Kerrick offered a weak smile. "Lieutenant Reagan. A face I surely don't miss. How's the missus—"

He saw the twitch in Fank's jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes.

"Oh," Kerrick said quickly. "Too soon? My bad."

Frank didn't respond, but the quiet shifted colder.

"I gotta say," Bastion chimed in, circling the chair, "I'm impressed. From the chopping block to cozy fieldwork. I take it Burgess threw you a bone?"

Kerrick smirked. "Well, between a blade to the neck and a leash, who wouldn't pick the leash? I've never been picky."

"Let me guess." Bastion leaned in. "He gives the order, you bark. He says fetch, and you don't even ask what it is you're bringing back."

Kerrick shrugged. "Look, I don't ask questions. Never did. Asking questions gets you killed. Following orders gets you paid. And hey, I'm still breathing."

Frank's eyes narrowed, a quiet fury simmering beneath the surface.

"You really don't care who gets hurt, do you?" he asked.

Kerrick leaned back as far as the chair would allow. "I've spent enough time behind bars to learn one truth: the game's rigged. So, you either play it smart, or you end up bleeding out in a ditch while someone else cashes your coin."

Bastion's smirk faded. "Then, let's see how long we can keep that streak going. Because right now? You're on borrowed time."

Kerrick's eyes scanned the room. Dim. Cramped. A repurposed storeroom, probably tucked in the back of the warehouse—walls lined with crates stamped in ink and sealed with iron nails. Not a window in sight.

Frank strode past him, boots heavy on the concrete. He stopped at a crate near the far wall—one already splintered near the base. Without ceremony, he drove his heel into the weak spot. The wood cracked, and a flood of sharp red crystals tumbled out across the floor with a hiss of friction.

Frank crouched, scooped one between his fingers, then rose to his feet. He turned back toward Kerrick, holding the shard of Lacrima beneath the hanging light.

"We got a tip," Frank said, "that shipments of Lacrima've been flooding Caerleon like a goddamn monsoon. All types. Heating-grade. Industrial. Military." He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the crystal. "Now normally, no one blinks. People need heat, light, juice for their toys. But you know what raises eyebrows?"

He looked up, meeting Kerrick's gaze.

"When a tiny little city like Caerleon starts stockpiling enough of this stuff to power bloody Camelot for the next century."

Frank stepped into Kerrick's space. The crystal poised like a scalpel in his hand.

"So, here's the part where you stop dancing and start talking. I know Burgess is behind this. I know there had been shipments since we came to this city, but it only started ramping up last week. But there ain't enough Warcasters in the city to justify this much magic-grade juice." He leaned in until Kerrick could feel his breath. "So, where's it going? What's he planning?"

Kerrick chuckled weakly, trying to wiggle in his chair. "Frank, buddy, c'mon. Do I look like the kind of guy Burgess shares his master plan with?" His grin was all nerves now. "Hell, I don't even know what the guy had for breakfast this morning, let alone what he's cooking with all this crap."

Frank's eyes narrowed.

"That's the wrong answer," he said.

Kerrick turned his head toward Bastion—just in time to see the younger man grin.

Without a word, Bastion grabbed a fistful of Kerrick's shirt and tore it open at the chest.

"Hey! You jackass—that's Arcadian wool!" Kerrick snapped, struggling against the restraints.

Bastion didn't answer. He unsheathed his short sword with a smooth pull, and Kerrick's eyes went wide.

"W-what're you—" he began, but Bastion silenced him with a hand over his mouth. Their eyes locked—silver and gold meeting wild panic—and Bastion's smile deepened into something feral.

Then came the blade.

Kerrick's scream was muffled as the edge carved a clean line across his chest. Not deep enough to kill, but wide enough to send blood trickling down his torso in thin, crimson rivulets. Bastion's blade drew across both pectorals. When he finally pulled his hand away, Kerrick let out a strangled yell.

"Screw you!" he howled. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Bastion said nothing as he slid the sword back into its sheath, his smirk never fading.

That's when Frank returned—silent, steady—with a bottle in hand. Metal, dented. A faded red label: Brake Fluid.

He twisted the cap off without breaking eye contact.

"Back in my younger days," Frank said calmly, "they made us do field medic training. Just for the experience. Triage, pressure wounds, nerve paths." He stood in front of Kerrick. "Didn't stick with it, but I picked up a few things. Like what hurts…"

He tilted the bottle.

"…and what really hurts."

Kerrick's scream tore through the room the moment the liquid hit his wound. His back arched, muscles spasming as the searing burn sliced through him like a hot iron. The blood on his chest hissed and bubbled. His face flushed red, neck veins bulging. The restraints groaned as he thrashed.

Frank remained steady.

"What you're feeling," he said evenly, "is a caustic compound reacting with exposed nerve endings. Nasty stuff. Medics called it 'burnwater.'" He poured more. Kerrick's screams grew louder, hoarser.

"Normally used in the field to stop a man from bleeding to death. Or to keep a man conscious when his body wants to shut down." Frank's expression darkened. "Or when you need someone to spill his guts."

"Please… please stop…" Kerrick gasped, sobbing. "It hurts…"

Bastion leaned casually against a crate nearby, arms crossed, watching.

Frank continued, low and grim. "We've got a city under siege. People dying in the streets. And a rat like you making deliveries for a monster who wants to drown it all in blood."

He emptied the last of the bottle with a final splash. Kerrick convulsed, his cries fading into broken, pained sobs.

"So, I'll ask again, Stonejaw," Frank stood up, dropping the empty bottle with a clatter. "What the hell is Lamar Burgess planning with all that Lacrima?"

"I don't know!" Kerrick sobbed, eyes wild. "I swear on my mother's grave, I don't know!"

Frank didn't flinch. He stared down at him in silence, then looked to Bastion. The younger man rolled his shoulders and offered a half-smirk.

"I'll go get the rest," he said casually, pushing off the crate.

"Rest?" Kerrick blinked. "What rest?"

Bastion paused in the doorway. "Oh, didn't you know? There's a mountain of this crap out back. Crates stacked like firewood. Probably for a dozen trucks." He scratched his chin. "With this much, we might be here all night. Maybe even into the morning."

Kerrick's face drained of color. His eyes bulged. "City Hall!" he blurted. "They're taking it to City Hall!"

Frank's brow furrowed. He stepped forward, grabbed the front of Kerrick's torn shirt, and yanked him forward until their faces were inches apart. "What's at City Hall!?"

"I don't know, man!" Kerrick cried. "I just move the stuff! Burgess doesn't tell me shit! I pick it up, I ship it, I drop it off—that's it! What they do with it after, I don't know and I don't want to know!"

Frank's grip tightened. "Stonejaw…"

"I swear to the Gods, I'm telling the truth!" Kerrick sobbed, his chest heaving. "You think I give a damn about Burgess? I'd happily rot in Revel's End for the rest of my life if it means staying the hell away from freaks like you two!" he cried, desperation in every word. "Please, you've got to believe me! I don't know anything else!"

Frank stared into him for a moment longer, eyes sharp.

Then, slowly, Frank let go. Kerrick slumped back in the chair with a thud.

"Gods—shit!" Kerrick snapped, jerking against his restraints. "You guys are freakin' nuts! You're even crazier than that maniac Serfence!"

"Alright, Kerrick, I believe you," Frank said with a breath. "Just… one last thing."

Kerrick looked up, glassy-eyed. "W-what?"

Frank didn't answer. He just wound back and punched him square across the jaw. The man's head snapped sideways, his body going limp, held upright only by the restraints.

Bastion let out a low whistle, arms crossed. "I'll be damned. All that talk about justice and doing the right thing... didn't think you had that in you."

Frank smirked, shaking out his knuckles. "Bless your heart, rookie. You think I got this far playing clean?" He gave a tired chuckle. "Your grandpa used to say: 'We don't teach 'em to be good. Just good enough.' There's a difference. 

Bastion raised a brow. "Yeah, well... City Hall." He started pacing. "Why move all that Lacrima there of all places?" Then it hit him. His expression snapped to alert. "Wait. Isn't that where the—"

"Bunkers," Frank cut in, eyes narrowing. "Old emergency shelters from back when the city still had a spine. And if memory serves, there's a whole web of tunnels beneath it. Hidden routes, meant for evacuations."

Bastion's smirk vanished. "Shit."

Frank nodded grimly. "If he's moving that much power underground, he's not just running. He's setting the table."

"For what?" Bastion asked.

Frank pulled out his communicator orb. "Only one way to find out. But knowing Burgess, that place'll be crawling with Norsefire thugs. If we're going in, we're gonna need backup."

****

The plains of Vol'Dunin were swallowed by fire. Orange tongues of flame devoured the grasslands, smoke curling high into the sky in thick, choking clouds. The air reeked of scorched earth and burning flesh. Tents once filled with laughter and warmth were now blackened husks, crackling beneath the weight of the inferno. The screams—Gods, the screams—echoed in every direction. The cries of the dying, the wails of children, the thunder of collapsing warriors. It was a song of ruin.

Orgrim's face was slick with blood, some his own, most not. The heft of his war hammer still rang through his bones from the last skull he'd crushed. But there was no time to mourn the dead—his heart galloped with dread. Something in the wind told him where the true blow had fallen.

He ran.

The reeds tore at his arms and legs as he charged through the field.

"Tia!" he roared. "Tia, where are you?!"

He reached his tent. What was left of it. The canvas had collapsed, half-burned, the poles broken. And in the center, amid the ash and ruin, he saw them.

His heart shattered.

There she lay. Tia. Strong, fierce Tia. Her dark hair singed and tangled, her body bloodied and still. Curled in her arms were their children—two little ones, faces smudged, limbs limp, as if caught mid-sleep. Their eyes closed. No breath. No sound.

Orgrim felt his war hammer slip from his fingers.

His legs gave way. He fell to his knees with a thunderous crash, his hands trembling as he reached for them. His great calloused fingers brushed Tia's hair back from her face. He pressed his forehead to his son's. His daughter's. His whole world, cold and gone.

A sound tore from his throat—raw, broken, primal. A beast's grief. His tears streaked down his bloodstained cheeks, mixing into the soot as he cradled them all to his chest.

"I'm sorry," he choked. "Deka, Teru… I should've been here. I should've—"

But then his gaze lifted—and froze.

Through the wavering smoke stood a man. Cloaked in AEGIS armor. His back straight. His voice cold as it shouted commands. The very same voice that once shared tales around the fire. The same eyes that had once looked at Orgrim as a brother.

Langston.

Orgrim's breath hitched, his sorrow boiling into rage. He laid his family down with trembling care, then wrapped his fingers around the handle of his war hammer once more.

He stood.

And he marched.

"Traitor!" he bellowed, each step like thunder on the scorched ground.

Langston turned, but there was no sneer on his face. No smirk. Only a mournful shadow crossed his face. A stillness that made Orgrim's fury burn hotter.

"I gave you food!" Orgrim shouted. "I gave you shelter! I gave you my trust!"

The AEGIS guards moved to intercept. Orgrim struck like a storm. His hammer swept through them, bones shattering, skulls bursting like ripe fruit. Blood sprayed in arcs. One after another they fell—but still they came.

"I called you brother!" Orgrim roared. "And this is how you repay me?!"

Langston said nothing. His eyes lingered for a moment—then he turned, and walked away.

"Don't you walk away from me!" Orgrim screamed. "Langston!"

But the smoke swallowed him. And the guards closed in.

Steel met flesh. The clang of blades, the crack of ribs. Orgrim fought with the fury of a broken god, but even fury has its limits. Wounds tore across his body, deep and unrelenting. At last, his legs buckled. He collapsed backward, his blood pooling beneath him, mixing with the ash.

He coughed, blood trailing from his lips, his eyes glassing over as he stared into the dark sky above. A flicker of warmth faded from his vision. His fingers twitched. He welcomed death. Perhaps, just perhaps, he'd see them again.

But death did not come.

Not yet.

****

The orc's eyes snapped open. For a moment, all he saw was haze—shadows bleeding into light, memory tangled with pain. Slowly, the blur receded, and above him loomed a ceiling of dark timber, heavy beams carved from ancient trees, worn and still. The mattress beneath him groaned under his weight, coarse springs twitching with each subtle breath. Pain pulsed through his ribs in waves, tight and searing. He glanced down. His chest was swathed in thick, blood-crusted bandages, stiff and blackened, reeking of iron and ash.

Then came the voice.

"City Hall?" It drifted over like smoke—familiar, infuriating. The heat in Orgrim's chest surged, his body tense despite the agony that clenched his muscles. He turned his head.

Langston. The traitor.

There he stood, back turned, calm as ever. An emerald-tinted screen hovered before him, flickering with faint static. He was speaking to someone on the other end.

"It doesn't make any sense," Langston muttered, scratching his head. "Why would Burgess be stockpiling Lacrima? And under City Hall? Either the man's got a twisted sense of humor or he's finally lost his damned mind."

Orgrim's vision narrowed into a tunnel. All he saw was the man before him—unscarred, upright, breathing. Rage, old and unforgiving, erupted like a volcano long dormant. It would be so easy. One lunge. One grip around the neck. One twist. The sound of vertebrae snapping like dry twigs. A breath. Then silence. His vengeance fulfilled.

"Beats me, Langston. Me and the kid, we're headed there to find out, but we can't do it alone." Frank's words crackled through the screen. "I've got loyal men left, but I'll need your team. Assuming they haven't jumped ship."

"Don't worry about them, Frank," Langston replied. "They're still mine. And if they aren't, I'll deal with it. Just let me know when to move."

"Give us a few days for reconnaissance. In the meantime, I'll handle Hartshorne, keep him distracted." Frank's figure gave a nod. "We'll be ready."

The call ended. The light faded.

Langston turned—and Orgrim struck.

He launched from the bed, roaring, hands seizing Langston's throat with the force of a falling boulder. He slammed the man against the wall with a thunderous crack, fists like vices, his amber eyes burning.

"You think pulling me from the jaws of death buys you mercy?" Orgrim snarled, spit flying from his lips, hoarse with rage. "You dare stand before me, traitor, like your hands aren't soaked in the blood of my kin?!"

Langston choked, gasping, his boots scraping against the wooden floor. His hands clawed at Orgrim's wrists, eyes wide.

"I crawled out of the pits of the damned just to find you!" Orgrim growled, his grip tightening with every word. "And I swear by every fallen soul in Vol'Dunin—I will rip you apart with my bare hands!"

"Orgrim… l-listen to me—please," Langston wheezed, his face flushing deep red as Orgrim's grip crushed his windpipe. "T-the game's changed… Burgess, he's—"

"That bastard's next!" Orgrim snapped, his breath hot and venomous. "After I tear your head clean from your shoulders and piss on what's left, I'll storm his little stronghold and do the same to him."

Langston grimaced, his eyes wide, throat spasming. "This… this isn't just about you and me," he rasped. "People are dying. Many already have. I'm trying to stop it."

He reached up with a trembling hand, grabbing Orgrim by the bandages that bound his chest, pulling him close with the last strength he had left. "I need your help!"

The words cut through the fury like a blade to flesh.

Orgrim's snarl faded. His amber eyes darkened—not with mercy, but with something more ancient. Weariness. Pain. Loss. The fires dimmed, if only for a moment.

He let go.

Langston collapsed to the floor, coughing violently, gasping for air as if he'd clawed it back from the abyss. Orgrim turned away and dropped heavily back onto the creaking bed, the frame groaning beneath him like a dying tree.

"Talk," he growled.

Langston wiped the blood from his mouth, massaging his neck as he leaned back against the wall. He took a moment to steady his breath before continuing.

"I know you were listening," he said hoarsely. "You heard what Frank said, and since the director pulled the leash off Norsefire, it's been a free-for-all. Curfews. Raids. Beatings. Arrests. Anyone they don't like just disappears. The city's drowning in fear."

He shook his head. "And now… Burgess is stockpiling Lacrima. More than anyone needs. Hiding it beneath City Hall, of all places. You think that's just about powering a few lights or heating up dinner?"

He looked up at Orgrim. "He's preparing for something big—something massive. And I don't think it's strategy. It reeks of desperation. Whatever it is, it's got him rattled. Bad. Bad enough he's throwing caution to the wind… and reaching for the kind of fire you can't put out once it's lit."

Langston exhaled hard. "This isn't war, Orgrim. This is a purge. And if we don't stop it—if we don't burn it out at the root—there won't be anything left to save."

Orgrim let out a low, bitter chuckle, though there was no mirth in it—only fury barely kept at bay. "You've got a spine, I'll give you that," he growled.

"After everything. After the betrayal, the blood, my family—you sit there and dare ask for my help?" His amber eyes blazed as his tusks tightened in a grimace. "You think a few words and a guilty conscience will wash that away?"

Langston didn't flinch. Instead, his eyes dropped to the floor, shoulders sinking under the weight of guilt. "I know," he said quietly. "I know I'm the last person who should be asking you for anything. I've no illusions of forgiveness, no fantasy of redemption."

He lifted his gaze again—steadier this time, as if forcing himself to endure Orgrim's hatred. "But what I told you that night in the rain... I meant it. When this ends, I'll face you. I'll walk beside you into the pit, into Tartarus itself, if that's what it takes to answer for what I've done. I won't run. I won't fight it."

Langston drew in a breath. "But right now, I have to do what's right. Burgess… the Tower… they're bleeding this city dry. I couldn't save your tribe. I can't bring back Tia… or your children." He paused, jaw tightening. "But I can make sure no one else loses everything the way you did."

He looked Orgrim in the eye.

"And for that… I need your strength. Please."

Orgrim closed his eyes and clenched his fists, the muscles in his arms tightening like iron cords beneath his skin. His jaw ground together as if he were chewing stone. The fury hadn't left him—it never would. It surged like fire in his chest, a storm of grief and wrath begging to be unleashed. Every breath he took was a battle against instinct, against that primal voice screaming for vengeance. Langston's blood, spilled across the floor, would be justice. It would be closure.

But then... he felt it.

A warmth pressed against his side. Gentle, familiar, unreal. A phantom touch. He froze. His breath hitched.

"Oh, Orgrim," came the voice—soft, tender, achingly familiar. "You're still so stubborn."

Tia.

Her voice flowed through him like a song half-forgotten. It broke past the dam of rage and soaked the raw, wounded heart beneath. He didn't dare open his eyes. He couldn't. Because he'd see her in the darkness behind his lids—her smile, her eyes, the way she held their children. And if he did, he might shatter.

"You've been wrapped in this rage for so long," she murmured, ghostly but sharp as truth. "It's made you forget who you are."

He swallowed hard, a breath escaping him like a sob. "If I help him... it would be a betrayal," he rasped. "Of you. Of our children. He took you from me."

"No," she whispered. "He followed orders. He was weak, yes... but not evil. You know that, Orgrim. You've always known."

She guided his gaze, and in the dimness of his mind's eye, Langston looked... smaller. Hollowed. A man crushed beneath the weight of his guilt. A man who hadn't slept well in years. The pain in his eyes wasn't feigned—it was etched into his soul.

Orgrim felt it first. Small hands pressing gently against his knees, warm despite their ghostly sheen. He looked down, and there they were. Teru. Deka. His children.

Their eyes—those same soft, curious eyes he once kissed goodnight—looked up at him with quiet knowing. Not accusation. Not sorrow. Something heavier: compassion. Understanding. They glanced toward Langston and then back to their father. It wasn't pleading, not quite. But it was close. A silent entreaty from the ones he'd loved most.

Orgrim's breath hitched. That familiar ache bloomed in his chest, sharp and crushing. He clenched his jaw. Their faces shimmered with memory and loss, but more than anything, they carried hope. Hope that their father might still choose mercy over vengeance.

And it weighed on him like a mountain.

"You called him brother once," Tia said. "I remember how you laughed with him. How you fought side by side. If I believed you then... I believe you still."

He could feel them—so vividly it stole his breath. Her hand, calloused yet gentle, cupped his cheek just as she used to. Her forehead pressed lightly against his, warm and familiar. And then, her lips—soft as morning rain—brushed his in a kiss that lingered with memory more than touch.

Tiny arms wrapped around his legs. He looked down, and the ghostly embrace of his children anchored him. Their small hands clung to him with all the love they'd ever known, as if they could will him back to the man he once was. The one who had laughed with them. Protected them. Held their world together.

"I loved the orc who fought for truth, justice, and most of all, hope. We all do," she said. "Now go, my love... prove me right."

And then they were gone.

Orgrim opened his eyes, and the world returned. Cold. Gray. Bleeding.

He inhaled, slow and deep. And when he finally spoke, it was with the gravity of a mountain shifting:

"…Fine."

Langston looked up; eyes wide with disbelief. "You mean… you'll help me?"

But Orgrim raised a finger, his expression carved from stone. "Let's make one thing clear, Langston. This changes nothing between us."

The orc lifted himself off the bed and stepped forward, each footfall heavy with restrained fury. Standing over the man in question, he loomed like a shadow dredged from the past.

"You owe me a debt," Orgrim said. "A debt soaked in blood. In betrayal. And you've yet to pay it." His amber eyes narrowed. "You once gave me your word—and broke it. Now you offer it again. Know this: if you fail me again… I will not rest. I will not stop. I will follow you to the ends of the earth, through fire and storm, across sea and sky. I will drag you back from death itself, and I will see you fulfill it."

He extended his hand—not as a gesture of forgiveness, but as a bond sealed by consequence.

Langston stared at it for a moment. Then, with a tired smile, he reached up and clasped it. Orgrim hauled him to his feet in a single pull.

"With you on my heels, old friend," Langston said with a wry grin, "I doubt I'd get very far."

Orgrim gave a snort, though the grim edge never left his gaze. "Wise of you to remember."

He stepped back, folding his massive arms. "Now. Tell me, Langston. What in the Old Gods is the plan?"