Korrak passed through the shattered archway of Helm’s Reach, leaving Gorthak’s corpse behind him. The wind had already begun burying the beast in frost, as if the land itself was eager to forget him.

  But Korrak would not forget.

  His body was broken, ribs screaming with every breath, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. His fingers still ached from where Gorthak had nearly crushed the life from him.

  And yet, he pressed on.

  Pain was nothing.

  Pain was a companion.

  He had come too far, killed too many, to stop now.

  Because inside these ruins, beyond these broken walls, lay the reason for it all.

  The Gjallarbrand.

  His ancestors' sword. His bloodline’s birthright.

  And the weapon that Velros had stolen.

  The warlock had been searching for something buried beneath this temple, something ancient. Now, Korrak knew what it was. The Gjallarbrand was not just a blade. It was a key.

  And if Velros had it…

  Then the world was already one step closer to ruin.

  Korrak stepped into the temple’s depths.

  And she was waiting for him.

  The chamber was wrong.

  Not in the way that old ruins usually were. Not with the scent of dust and forgotten stone.

  This place still breathed.

  The torches lining the walls burned with pale, cold flames, casting shadows that moved too slowly across the carved walls. The air was thick with something cloying, intoxicating.

  Incense. Myrrh. And something richer.

  Something like honey and blood.

  She stood at the center of the room, where an altar of obsidian had been raised, etched with runes that glowed faintly with old magic.

  She was not armored.

  She did not need to be.

  Instead, she wore a gown as black as the void, the sheer fabric flowing over the curve of her body, clinging just enough to hint at the pale, untouched skin beneath. Her hair was midnight silk, cascading over one shoulder in loose waves.

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  And her eyes…

  Molten gold.

  Burning. Watching.

  She was the most dangerous thing Korrak had ever seen.

  And he had seen monsters.

  His fingers curled instinctively around his sword hilt, but he did not draw. Not yet.

  She smiled. Slow. Knowing.

  "You’ve come far, Korrak," she purred, her voice rolling through the chamber like warm wine. "I knew you would."

  He stepped forward, his boots scraping against the stone.

  "Get out of my way," he said, voice low, rough as cut stone.

  She exhaled, amused, tilting her head. "Is that all I am to you? A mere obstacle?"

  Korrak ignored the bait. His gaze flicked to the altar.

  And there it was.

  The Gjallarbrand.

  The sword lay across the black stone, its edge gleaming despite the lack of light. Even from across the chamber, he could feel it.

  The power humming in its steel.

  The weight of his ancestors in its grip.

  It was waiting.

  It had been waiting for him.

  But Rylana did not step aside.

  She took one step closer, moving with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator.

  Her perfume filled his lungs, thick and heavy, laced with something unnatural.

  Magic.

  Her lips curved again. "It calls to you, doesn’t it?" she murmured.

  Korrak did not answer.

  She circled him like a shadow in silk.

  "You have spent your life hunting," she mused, her golden eyes gleaming. "Fighting. Killing. Always searching for something."

  He exhaled through his nose. "I found it."

  "Did you?"

  She was closer now. Close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body, the brush of fabric against his arm.

  Her fingers drifted upward, tracing the air just inches from his skin.

  Not touching.

  But close enough to make him feel it.

  "You think the Gjallarbrand is just a weapon," she whispered. "But it’s more. It always has been."

  His jaw tightened.

  "More than a blade. More than steel. It is a conduit. A key. A piece of something greater than you."

  He forced himself to breathe evenly.

  "Take it," she whispered, tilting her head toward the altar. "It’s yours by blood, by right."

  Korrak hesitated.

  For the first time since stepping into this temple, since setting foot in Eldrun, he hesitated.

  It called to him. The sword. His ancestors. His blood.

  The whispers in his mind grew louder.

  Take it. Wield it. Become what you were meant to be.

  But beneath those whispers, beneath the hunger, something was wrong.

  Rylana saw it in his face.

  And she smiled.

  "Ah," she breathed, eyes half-lidded. "You feel it, don’t you?"

  His breath was heavier now. The air was thick. The perfume, the warmth, the whispering in his skull. It was pressing down on him.

  She leaned in, her lips just inches from his ear.

  "You don’t have to fight anymore," she whispered. "You don’t have to hunt. You don’t have to bleed for a world that will forget your name."

  Her voice wrapped around his thoughts like silk.

  "I could give you peace, Korrak."

  He could see it.

  A world without war. Without blood. Without the hunger that drove him forward, that left him cold in the long nights, that had taken everything from him.

  No more battles.

  No more ghosts.

  Just her.

  And the blade.

  And power.

  Korrak exhaled sharply.

  And moved.

  Fast.

  His hand snapped up, fingers closing around her throat.

  Her golden eyes widened.

  Not in fear.

  In delight.

  “Oh, Korrak,” she breathed.

  And then the trap sprung.

  Shadows exploded from her skin.

  The chamber shifted.

  The torches died.

  The scent of perfume twisted into something rancid, rotting, something old.

  The altar cracked.

  And the abyss beneath Helm’s Reach began to awaken.