The Blackwolf’s Shadow

The freed prisoners huddled near the dying fire, their faces pale with cold and fear. Hakon stood over the bodies of the fallen mercenaries, his breath misting in the frozen air. The boy among them—no older than twelve—stared at him with wide eyes, as if unsure whether he had been saved by a man or a beast.

The older of the two surviving men stepped forward, his hands trembling. "You killed them all," he whispered.

Hakon sheathed his sword. "They would have done worse to you."

The woman, wrapped in a tattered shawl, clenched her fists. "They already did." Her voice was raw, her gaze hollow.

Hakon said nothing. There was no comfort he could offer that would change what had already been done. He turned his attention to the mercenaries' belongings, rummaging through their saddlebags.

"Where did they take you from?" he asked.

The older man swallowed hard. "A village west of here. Greythorne."

Hakon frowned. He knew that name. Once, long ago, it had been a proud holdfast, loyal to the warlords of the north. Now it was little more than a scattered collection of hovels, left to fend for itself. If Greythorne had fallen to raiders, then the Usurper-Kings had abandoned these lands completely.

He pulled a leather satchel from one of the fallen mercenaries, dumping its contents onto the ground. Among the stolen coins and trinkets, a crumpled scrap of parchment caught his eye. He unfolded it, scanning the words.

A contract.

Mercenaries hired under the sigil of Lord Varic the Vulture, one of the lesser warlords sworn to King Eridor. The same man whose banners had been planted beside the slaughtered men at the farmstead.

So, it wasn't just raiders. It was sanctioned.

Hakon's fingers tightened around the parchment. He had sworn vengeance against the kings who betrayed him, but the rot ran deeper than their thrones. Their greed, their cruelty—it spread like a disease, seeping into every corner of the land.

And he would cut it out.

He folded the paper and tucked it into his belt. Then he turned to the prisoners. "If you stay here, you'll freeze," he said. "There's food and shelter to the north, if you can make the journey."

The older man hesitated. "And you?"

Hakon tightened his cloak. "I have a vulture to hunt."

By dawn, Hakon was on the move.

The mercenaries' horses had been well-fed, and he took the strongest among them, a dark-coated destrier with scars along its flank. A warhorse, once. Likely stolen from a battlefield.

It would serve him well.

He rode south, following the trail of Lord Varic's men. The contract had given him a direction—Greythorne was only the beginning. If Varic had ordered the attack, there would be more. Villages burned, people taken. And if he was still the coward Hakon remembered, he would be hiding behind walls, sending others to die in his name.

Hakon would make sure he paid his debts in blood.

The land stretched endlessly before him, a frozen wasteland of barren trees and frost-covered fields. The wind howled through the valleys, carrying the distant cries of crows feasting on the remains of forgotten battles.

Hakon did not stop.

The Blackwolf was hunting again.