The torches cast flickering orange glows over the hall. Shadows danced upon wooden walls, cast by long tables and seats that were, unusually, empty. Outside, the snow fell and the wind howled.

King Kartesk sat at his place at the head of the hall, looking over the silent and empty expanse before him. His expression was grim, and his thoughts were dark. The iron circlet around his head itched, and occasionally he would reach up to tug at his beard. The presence of gray in it bothered him in a way it never had before.

Usually the evening brought with it the people of Redair, this land he claimed as his kingdom. Kartesk's father, Gundir the Mighty, had carved out this territory by his own hand, through blood and blade, and Kartesk had inherited it some three decades ago. In that time, he had worked tirelessly to both secure his lands and win the hearts of his people. Over a dozen villages paid tribute to Redair, and the other Northern Kings looked upon it with jealousy, and Kartesk was well aware that one day that jealousy may give way to something greater. They might prey upon the simmering resentment of an unhappy populace, and so Kartesk did what he could to ensure that would not happen.

Every night, he welcomed his people into his hall, and all visitors were served with mead from Lobresk, fruits from Harst, and meats from the finest butchers in all the kingdom. Spices imported from Remuran Imperial merchants garnished the meals, and each night was alive with the sounds of men feasting and laughing and making merry.

But on this night, none dared to disturb the king. The people whispered that he was in mourning, for his sons were gone. None imagined that Kartesk did not mourn—he held hope still that his sons might live, and that was perhaps a far crueler thing than grief.

There was a noise to his left, the sound of boots upon the wooden planks of the hall's floor. Kartesk thought perhaps his wife had come to find him. She was his second wife, and mother to neither of his sons, and their disappearance had not affected her the way it had him. Some dark part of his psyche suspected, perhaps unfairly, that Heldara was eager for the young men to be gone so that the child in her belly might inherit his kingdom, and try as he might, he could not help but resent her for that unfounded suspicion.

He turned his head to regard her, and was mildly surprised to see that his visitor was not Heldara, but rather his seneschal Duulan. The man was short and broad shouldered, with a strangely youthful appearance despite his long black beard. It was rumored that he had Dwarven blood somewhere in his ancestry, and Kartesk had never seen any reason to doubt this.

"My King," Duulan said with a bow. "It does you no good to sit alone in your hall like this."

"What else is there?" Kartesk asked bitterly. "My sons are missing—one taken by a long dead tyrant, and the other lost fighting his dark forces. There is no celebration to be had on this night. My family and my kingdom are doomed."

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"Ralof may return with his brother yet."

"Two weeks!" Kartesk snapped. "Ralof set off to rescue his brother two weeks ago, and there has been no word since! I send my warriors to defend Jarstead from the draugr, and the only news they bring back is that the dead are growing in number. King Stargis is eyeing our lands with hunger, eager to take advantage of our crisis, and still neither Ralof nor Balof have emerged from that accursed barrow!"

He looked away, and stared out among the flickering shadows of his empty hall. He could almost hear the laughter that would normally fill the space. Somehow, the ghostly and imagined noise felt mocking. Silently he cursed his age and the old wound on his leg. Anything he would give to venture into the barrow himself, face the Vile King, and rescue his boys. "The situation is hopeless."

For a moment, Duulan was silent. And then he said: "It may not be."

Kartesk turned back to him, raised an eyebrow, and waited for his seneschal to explain himself.

"There is word from Halvar's Crossing," Duulan said. "A woman is currently staying there, by name of Nessalir the Red."

The king scoffed. "A woman!"

"A woman," Duulan agreed, "but a great warrior as well. It is said that Nessalir saved the life of the Elf Queen from assassins, repelled the army of Ortan on her own, and defeated the half-giant Tharndir in single combat."

"So I have heard," said King Kartesk. "I have also heard that she is a monster, born from a cursed union between witch and dragon; that she has the eyes of a reptile, a clawed hand, and teeth like needles."

"Scales and a tail as well," added Duulan. The ghost of a smile had appeared on his face. "Yes, the stories all agree that she is drakkowar as the Elder Ones would say. But her feats are unrivaled throughout all the Northern Lands."

Kartesk scowled. The idea of hiring this woman, this abomination, to solve the problems of his kingdom rankled at his pride. "And what would she demand for my kingdom's safety? What price would this dragonblooded one desire, in exchange for venturing into the Vile King's barrow, ending this threat, and rescuing my sons?"

"She is a mercenary, my King," said Duulan. "I would think gold would be enough."

"A mercenary," Kartesk spat. "It is a dark day, my friend, when we are forced to rely upon the sword of one so honorless."

Duulan bowed apologetically. "I take it we are hiring her services, then?"

"See it done."

"Of course, my King. I shall send a rider to Halvar's Crossing immediately."

With that, the short yet broad seneschal took his leave, and Kartesk sat once more alone and in silence. He looked out across his hall, then placed his face in his hands. Secure in the knowledge that none could see him, the king began to weep.