The war hall of the Iron Wolves was carved from rough, ancient stone, its high, vaulted ceiling lined with the bones of fallen beasts, relics of hunts long past. Weapons of all kinds decorated the walls—rusted swords dulled from old battles, shields dented from long-forgotten wars, axes still caked with the blood of past foes. The room smelled of burning tallow, oiled steel, and damp earth, a scent that was both familiar and unsettling to Achem.

These were not the halls of a royal court, nor were these warriors knights in polished armor. They were the discarded, the exiled, the killers that the world had abandoned—and yet, in this cold chamber, they found purpose once more.

At the center of the hall, dozens of hardened fighters stood shoulder to shoulder, their eyes fixed on him. Waiting.

Waiting for their leader.

Achem felt their weight—their expectations, their doubts, their hunger for battle.

These men were not soldiers of a noble king; they were killers, mercenaries, and outcasts, bound together only by their skill in battle and the promise of violence. If he was to lead them, he had to prove himself—not as Rogar, but as something more.

"The Council of Lords sits in their gilded halls, thinking themselves untouchable," Achem began, his voice steady, commanding. "They have ruled through fear, crushed rebellion before it could rise. They believe their power is absolute."

A murmur rippled through the gathered warriors. Some nodded in agreement, others simply listened, their expressions unreadable.

Achem took a step forward, his boots echoing against the stone floor.

"Tonight, we remind them that nothing is absolute."

The murmurs turned to low growls of approval, warriors clenching their fists, their eyes burning with the promise of bloodshed.

"We do not attack as raiders," Achem continued. "We do not sack a town and vanish into the night. We take Qoarla and hold it. We send a message to the Council that their rule is no longer unchallenged."

A warrior near the front—a grizzled man with a half-missing ear—slammed his fist against his chest. Others followed, the war hall echoing with the sound of iron and flesh meeting.

"We carve our place in history," Achem finished, his voice cutting through the noise like steel, "or we die trying."

The war hall erupted into a roar.

Achem let them have their moment before turning to the wooden table at the heart of the room, where Garnac and Lysara stood over a map of Qoarla, the fortress city they would soon claim.

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Lysara was the first to speak, her sharp nails tapping against the map.

"The outer walls will be our biggest obstacle," she said, tracing her finger along the thick perimeter of stone on the parchment. "If we can slip past the patrols, we can strike key positions, weaken them before the main assault begins."

Garnac grunted, arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression unimpressed.

"A fine plan—if you think we’re thieves instead of warriors. We hit hard and fast, cut through them before they can call for help. A real fight, not coward’s work."

Lysara scoffed, rolling her eyes.

"Yes, because running headfirst into a fortress has always worked so well for armies in the past," she said sarcastically.

Garnac narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.

Achem pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling.

"Enough," he said, and the room fell silent.

He tapped a section of the map near the outer walls.

"We do both. We strike from the shadows, take out their sentries, then storm the first wall before an alarm can be raised. Once the outer defenses crumble, we push hard. Fast. No retreat."

Lysara smirked. "Now you’re speaking my language."

Garnac huffed but gave a reluctant nod. "I can work with that."

Achem turned to the rest of the warriors.

"We leave within the hour."

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The Iron Wolves moved through the cold wilderness, their bodies wrapped in dark cloaks, their footfalls muffled against the damp earth.

Above them, the moon hung low, a sliver of silver in an otherwise starless sky. The air smelled of pine and frost, a reminder that winter was closing in.

Achem walked near the front, his thoughts adrift in a sea of past and present, his memories of Rogar’s campaigns clashing with his own instincts.

Was he truly different?

Or was he merely wearing the face of a dead king, doomed to repeat the same mistakes?

Ahead, the scouting party moved in silence—four warriors, not scouts by nature but hardened fighters, tasked with surveying the land.

Hours passed.

Then—one did not return.

Achem’s gut twisted.

The three remaining warriors emerged from the darkness, their faces grim, tense. One of them, a lean man with a bloodied arm, spoke first.

"A patrol," he rasped. "We took out two of them, but… Oyigi didn’t make it."

Silence fell over the group.

Achem inhaled deeply, the weight of his decisions pressing heavier against his chest.

"Their defenses?" he asked.

"Tighter than expected," the warrior answered. "The people inside… they’re afraid. But not of us. The Council’s soldiers keep them in line through fear."

Achem nodded slowly.

Then we give them something else to believe in.

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Later that night, the Iron Wolves camped within the dense woods, the flickering flames of their fires barely enough to keep the biting cold at bay.

Stolen novel; please report.

Achem sat at the edge of one fire, his hands resting on his knees, his mind still lingering on the scout’s report.

Lysara sat beside him, watching the flames with an amused smirk.

"You’re brooding again," she said.

Achem exhaled. "Thinking."

She tilted her head. "Dangerous habit."

He gave a short, dry laugh, but his mind didn’t stray from its path.

"What if they don’t follow me?" he muttered. "What if this is all for nothing?"

Lysara studied him.

"Then you die. And we die. But if you succeed…" She smirked. "Then you get to be king again."

Achem didn’t respond.

Did he even want that?

He had been an office worker, once.

A man with simple desires—stability, money, comfort. He had never dreamed of a throne. Of war.

And yet, here he was. Trying to seize another man’s castle.

For what?

Was this truly what he wanted?

A few feet away, Garnac sharpened his blade, his movements slow, methodical.

"You ever lost everything, Your Majesty?" Garnac asked without looking up.

Achem, his expression confused and annoyed, glanced at him.

"Yes."

Garnac nodded. "Then you know why I fight."

Achem locked eyes with Lysara.

She rolled her eyes and smirked.

No more words were spoken that night.

The first wall of Qoarla loomed ahead, bathed in the cold glow of torches mounted along its battlements.

The city sat tucked against the valley’s edge, its seven concentric walls rising in staggered layers, each one a fortress of its own. The outermost wall, the first barrier, stood before them like a great, silent beast—unyielding, unshaken, watching.

Achem crouched in the shadows, hidden among the gnarled roots of a dying tree, his gaze fixed on the patrolling sentries above.

The plan was simple:

Silence first. Then the storm.

He turned to Lysara, Garnac, and the two dozen warriors crouched beside him, their weapons glinting in the dim light.

Achem whispered, his voice barely a breath.

"Go."

The first phase was silent death.

The Iron Wolves slipped through the darkness, their movements precise and deadly. Shadows merged with shadows, boots barely whispering against the cold stone.

Achem’s dagger flashed in the moonlight, and a sentry’s throat parted cleanly, his body slumping soundlessly onto the parapet.

Lysara moved like a wraith, silent and lethal, her dagger finding soft flesh beneath metal.

One by one, the sentries fell, their corpses left where they dropped—a ghostly warning to those who would soon follow.

For a moment, the world held its breath.

Then—the storm broke.

Achem raised his sword high.

"Attack!"

The night exploded with sound.

Steel clashed against steel.

Arrows whistled through the air.

War cries echoed through the darkness.

The Iron Wolves poured through the shattered gates, their swords cutting through the first wave of defenders like a scythe through wheat.

The battle had begun.

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The first wall fell swiftly.

Achem and his warriors moved like a storm, cutting down defenders before they could regroup. Blood slicked the stone beneath them, bodies piled against the broken gates.

But this was only the beginning.

Ahead lay six more walls, each stronger than the last.

Achem’s chest heaved as he surveyed the battlefield, the acrid scent of smoke and blood filling his lungs.

From the next tier of defenses, horns blared, signaling an alarm that would rouse the entire city’s garrison.

Lysara gritted her teeth, her fingers curling into fists. "That’s it. We’ve lost the element of surprise."

Achem’s jaw tightened. "Then we fight."

They pressed forward.

Wall after wall.

Each harder than the last.

With every step deeper into Qoarla, Achem felt Rogar’s instincts creeping into his movements.

He was faster, stronger, his strikes more precise.

But there was something else.

Something darker.

Achem wasn’t just fighting as himself anymore.

He was fighting like Rogar.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure if that was a victory or a curse.

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Then—the reinforcements arrived.

A war horn howled through the night, and from the city’s inner fortress, a fresh wave of soldiers surged forth.

Armor gleamed beneath the torches, shields locking into formation, a disciplined front pushing toward them like a wall of living steel.

Garnac swore.

"They weren’t supposed to have this many left!"

Achem gritted his teeth. He could feel the battle shifting—the Iron Wolves were outnumbered, outmatched.

Then, from behind the enemy ranks, a single figure stepped forward.

His armor was black, trimmed in the gold sigil of the Council, his helmet shaped like the head of a beast, its eyes glistening red in the firelight.

The enemy commander.

The man raised his massive, two-handed sword and pointed it directly at Achem.

"If you are truly Rogar," the man called out, "then fight me!"

Silence spread across the battlefield like a disease.

Even the Iron Wolves paused, their weapons slick with blood, their bodies aching with exhaustion.

Achem exhaled slowly.

He stepped forward.

"No," he said, gripping his sword tighter. "I fight as Achem."

The commander charged.

Their swords met in an explosion of sparks.

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The duel was a storm of steel and fury.

The commander was a brute of a man, his blows heavy enough to split stone, but Achem was faster.

He dodged, countered, felt Rogar’s instincts guiding his blade.

For a moment, he was winning.

Then—his enemy adjusted.

Achem barely managed to deflect a crushing blow aimed at his skull. The sheer force sent him staggering backward, his boots sliding over blood-slicked stone.

The commander lunged.

Achem reacted without thinking.

His blade shot forward, faster than he had ever moved before.

Steel met flesh.

The commander froze, his massive body shuddering, Achem’s sword buried deep in his chest.

Achem held the hilt with both hands, watching as the man gasped, coughed red, and then collapsed.

Dead.

Achem stood there, breathless, watching the life drain from his enemy’s eyes.

He had killed before.

But this was different.

This was his first kill as a leader.

His first kill as a king.

And as he stood over the corpse, blood dripping from his blade, he felt something shift inside him.

Something irreversible.