The Road to War

By dawn, Hakon was gone.

The village elder had kept his word—outside the hut, a sturdy black horse awaited him, saddlebags stocked with what little the villagers could spare. The morning air was crisp, the scent of damp earth thick in his lungs.

Hakon adjusted the cloak over his shoulders, hiding his armor beneath the worn fabric. His ribs still ached, but the pain had dulled into something manageable. He had known worse.

The villagers gathered in small clusters, watching him with wary eyes. Some murmured among themselves, others refused to meet his gaze at all. Only the elder approached.

"Take the southern path," the old man said, handing over the reins. "Avoid the main roads. There are patrols."

Hakon nodded. "Whose?"

"The Usurper-Kings," the elder spat. "Their warbands take what they please. Food, steel, men." His expression darkened. "Boys, mostly."

Hakon tightened his grip on the reins. He had seen it before. Warlords stripping villages bare, stealing sons for their armies and daughters for their pleasure. His own father had once done the same. The world had never been kind to the weak.

The elder seemed to read his thoughts. "Will you fight them?"

Hakon swung onto the saddle. The horse shifted beneath him, powerful and restless. He met the old man's gaze.

"I will," he said simply.

The elder exhaled, as if he had expected that answer. He stepped back. "Then ride fast, Blackwolf."

Hakon pulled the reins and turned toward the road. The villagers watched in silence as he disappeared into the mist.

The road stretched before him, winding through frost-bitten woods and over barren hills. He rode at a steady pace, keeping to the shadows, avoiding open ground. The land was colder than he remembered, the trees stripped bare by the creeping grasp of winter.

By midday, he came across the first signs of war.

A burned-out homestead, its roof collapsed, its fields blackened and dead. Crows circled above, their cries cutting through the still air. Bodies hung from a lone oak tree—five men, their faces swollen and purple, their armor stripped.

Hakon reined in his horse, surveying the scene. The banners impaled into the ground were unfamiliar—green and gold, a sigil of a snarling wolf's head.

Not one of the Five Kings.

Mercenaries, then.

His grip on the reins tightened. These were not the men who had betrayed him. But they were men who had spilled innocent blood. That was enough.

He dismounted, drawing his sword. The crows scattered as he moved toward the tree, the scent of death thick in his nose. The bodies were fresh—perhaps a day old.

He knelt, inspecting the ground. Hoofprints, heavy and deep. At least a dozen riders. They had taken what they wanted, left the dead to rot.

He turned his gaze to the horizon. The road stretched south, vanishing into the hills. A flicker of movement caught his eye—a thin trail of smoke, barely visible against the sky.

A campfire.

Hakon rose, sheathing his sword. His path was clear.

The hunt continued.