The mountain air was thin and sharp, cutting through Achem’s cloak like knives. The clearing before the Iron Wolves’ fortress was deathly silent, save for the whisper of the wind as it stirred the frost-covered ground.
Weapons remained drawn, but no one moved.
Achem stood tall, his expression unreadable. He felt the weight of their gazes—men who had once sworn loyalty to Rogar, now unsure if the man standing before them was truly their king or an imposter wearing his face.
The scarred man smirked, shifting his sword slightly.
"We don’t follow ghosts," he repeated.
Achem exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Then let me prove I’m not one."
Lysara stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching with her usual air of amusement, though he didn’t miss the way her fingers twitched—ready to throw magic the moment things turned bad.
The scarred man stepped forward, lifting his sword in a testing stance.
"Fine. If you truly are Rogar, you’ll remember our laws." His eyes glinted. "No words. No second chances. If you want the Iron Wolves, you take them by force."
The surrounding warriors grinned at that—some with excitement, others with something darker.
Achem’s fingers curled around his sword hilt. He felt a pulse of something beneath his skin, something hungry, something waiting for him to embrace the bloodshed.
Not yet.
Not unless he had to.
The scarred man grinned. "Let’s see if you can still fight like a king."
Then Achem’s lips curled slightly. A memory surfaced, clear and sharp.
"I remember you," Achem said, and it wasn’t just his voice—it was Rogar’s voice.
The man in front of him raised an eyebrow.
"You’re Garnac, aren’t you?"
A flicker of recognition passed through the scarred man’s face.
Achem tilted his head. "Little Garnac. Always crying when getting hit by his commander."
A few of the watching warriors burst into laughter, some exchanging amused glances.
Garnac’s jaw tightened, his scarred face twisting in a half-scowl. He said nothing.
Instead, he swung his sword in a circular warm-up, the blade whistling through the air.
Then, without another word—he lunged.
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Achem sidestepped the first strike, the blade slicing through empty air where his neck had been a moment ago.
He moved on instinct—Rogar’s instincts.
The second attack came faster, a downward slash aimed at his ribs. Achem blocked, their swords clashing in a burst of sparks.
The force of the impact sent a shudder through his arms.
Garnac was strong.
But Achem was faster.
He shifted his stance, ducking low before slamming his shoulder into his opponent’s chest.
Garnac stumbled back—just enough.
Achem didn’t waste time.
He pressed forward, his blade flashing in a deadly arc—aimed not to kill, but to disarm.
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Garnac barely managed to block, his expression shifting from amusement to something sharper.
Now, he was taking this seriously.
Good.
They exchanged a flurry of strikes, each movement a test, a challenge. Achem could feel the Iron Wolves watching, measuring his skill, his strength, his resolve.
They weren’t just looking for a leader.
They were looking for a king.
Garnac grinned, wiping blood from a shallow cut on his arm.
"You’ve still got it," he admitted.
Then he attacked again.
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The battle stretched on.
Achem could feel his muscles straining, his breath coming in slow, measured inhales. His opponent was relentless, but Achem knew how to fight against brute force.
He moved like a shadow, dodging, countering, never meeting Garnac’s strength head-on.
But he felt it—that hunger.
That dark, pulsing thing inside him, waiting.
One wrong step. One moment of weakness. And it would take over.
No.
Not yet.
Not like this.
Achem gritted his teeth, pushing the presence down, forcing himself to fight as a man—not as whatever else he was becoming.
Then the opening came.
Garnac lunged—too aggressive, too committed.
Achem sidestepped, twisting his blade—disarming his opponent in one swift movement.
Garnac’s sword clattered to the ground.
Silence.
The Iron Wolves watched.
Achem stood over his opponent, his sword hovering just inches from the man’s throat.
A slow grin spread across Garnac’s face.
"Well," he murmured. "Looks like the king’s still alive after all."
Then, to Achem’s surprise, he laughed.
A deep, genuine laugh.
He clapped Achem on the shoulder, ignoring the blade still at his throat.
"The Iron Wolves are yours," he said.
Around them, the warriors nodded, some murmuring in approval, others watching with quiet, grudging respect.
Achem slowly lowered his sword.
It was done.
He had passed their trial.
And now, he had an army.
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The Iron Wolves’ fortress was spartan and brutal—built for war, not comfort. The halls were lined with weapons, the scent of steel and oiled leather thick in the air.
Lysara walked beside Achem, her arms crossed. "Well, that was fun," she mused. "For the record, I would’ve bet against you."
Achem gave her a dry look. "Appreciate the confidence."
She smirked. "You won, didn’t you?"
He shook his head, turning his focus back to the warriors around him.
They had accepted him, but it was not the same as trust.
That had to be earned.
Garnac stood at the head of the gathering.
"You won the fight," he said, "but that only proves you can swing a sword. Now, you have to show us why we should follow you."
Achem met his gaze.
"Because we have a war to win," he said dramatically.
Lysara rolled her eyes.
Achem ignored her. He liked playing the hero-king more than he cared to admit.
Garnac studied him for a long moment, then nodded.
"Then tell us, Your Majesty."
His lips curled into a wolfish grin.
"Who do we kill first?"
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Maps were spread across the wooden table in the war room, candles flickering against the aged parchment.
The Iron Wolves gathered, some standing, some leaning against the walls, all watching as Achem outlined their next step.
The Council of Lords would expect him to remain hidden, to stay on the defensive.
So he would do the opposite.
"We hit them first," Achem said, his voice steady. "Before they even know we’re coming."
He pointed to a fortress town on the western border of Eldoria.
"Qoarla," Garnac murmured. "A stronghold of the Council’s forces."
Achem nodded. "It’s lightly defended this time of year. If we take it, we gain weapons, supplies—and a foothold back into the kingdom."
Silence.
Then one of the Iron Wolves—a grizzled man with a missing eye— grinned.
"You really are Rogar," he muttered.
Lysara smirked, leaning against the table. "Took you long enough to realize."
Achem looked around the room.
They were watching him now—not as a stranger, not as a relic of the past, but as a leader.
As a king.
"Prepare the men," he said.
"We ride at dawn."