I look at the prompt hanging in my vision.

  Kragus has accepted: Faction Name?

  The words float there like a waiting knife.

  I don’t overthink it.

  The Condemned.

  The moment the name settles into place, something changes.

  Not in the room. In him.

  Kragus’s mouth twitches, and then he lets out a short snort of amusement, like the name hit something he didn’t expect. It isn’t laughter. It’s approval disguised as cynicism.

  A new set of words floods my vision.

  Faction Formed:

  Faction Lord: Kron the Ensouled, War Troll.

  Faction Member: Kragus, Hobgoblin Warlord. Assign role?

  I keep my eyes on Kragus as the next message unfolds, reading without letting my focus drift.

  Role Assignments:

  Minion: This selection would make Kragus your minion, bound to your will but limiting his abilities.

  Soldier: This selection would give Kragus more power but still limit his autonomy.

  Officer: This selection would give Kragus maximum autonomy and power.

  Faction Lord: This selection would replace you with Kragus as faction lord.

  My jaw tightens at the last option.

  Replace you.

  Even seeing it written makes something in me bristle.

  Kragus watches my face carefully, eyes sharp, reading me the way a predator reads a rival. Even chained to the wall, he has presence. He stands as straight as the iron will allow, shoulders squared, chest lifted. His armor is still strapped to him, battered but well cared for, plates overlapping like a soldier’s second skin. His wrists are bound in thick shackles, the chain links heavy enough to hold something much larger than him.

  He should look helpless.

  He doesn’t.

  He looks like a warlord forced to wait.

  I think about the roles.

  Minion would make him a puppet.

  Soldier would make him an obedient blade.

  Officer would make him… himself.

  I don’t want a mindless follower.

  If I’m going to build something out of this place, I need allies and subordinates who can think, who can act when I’m not watching, who can hold ground and make decisions and kill without being told which direction to swing.

  Weaklings can be minions.

  The desperate can be soldiers.

  A hobgoblin warlord is neither.

  I select Officer.

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  The choice lands with a faint pressure behind my eyes, like something being sealed.

  A message appears.

  Kragus has been assigned the role of Officer. You have 2 more officer roles available.

  I absorb the information without comment.

  Two more.

  Good.

  Kragus lifts his head slightly as if he can feel the change in the air.

  “Thank you,” he says, voice low and measured. “Lord… Kron, is it?”

  Hearing my name spoken out loud by someone else is strange. It still carries a faint sting, but it also carries weight now. Less like a brand and more like a title.

  He pauses, eyes narrowing.

  He’s thinking.

  Calculating.

  I can see it in the small movements of his jaw, the way his gaze flicks to the doorway I destroyed, then back to me. He’s mapping the situation. Mapping me.

  “Do you think you…” He starts.

  He doesn’t finish.

  Because I move.

  I step past him and go straight to the chains.

  The links are thick, forged iron, bolted into the stone wall with heavy brackets. They look like the kind of restraints meant to hold something that can tear men apart.

  Apparently, they were.

  I wrap my fingers around one link and squeeze.

  Metal bites into my palm.

  Then it gives.

  Not with a clean snap, but with a grinding protest, the iron deforming under my grip. I twist, applying force the way you twist a man’s wrist until his bones decide to cooperate.

  The link tears apart.

  The sound is loud in the small room, a harsh metallic crack that echoes off the stone.

  Kragus goes still.

  I don’t look at him as I work. I focus on the task, breaking link after link, tearing the chain down piece by piece.

  The iron fights me.

  It loses.

  The last link snaps free, and the weight of the chain drops to the floor with a heavy clang.

  ***

  I straighten and look at him.

  Kragus stands taller now that the chains are gone, rolling his shoulders, flexing his fingers like a man reacquainting himself with his own body. The iron had bitten deep into his wrists. The skin there is raw and dark, already toughening as if it refuses to stay injured.

  “Hobgoblin Warlord,” I say. My voice carries easily in the small chamber. “You have leadership skills?”

  He snorts softly, then rubs at his wrists again, working feeling back into them. When he nods, it’s without hesitation.

  “Yes,” he says. “I do.”

  There’s a pause. His brow furrows, expression tightening as he searches for something just out of reach.

  “It’s hard to remember before,” he continues, slower now. “Like trying to recall a dream you had while bleeding out. But I think… I think I was some kind of gang leader. A war chief. Something like that.”

  He looks up at me, eyes sharper than before.

  “Now,” he says, voice gaining confidence as the words settle into place, “now I can lead. Organize. Establish logistics. Patrols. Supply. Discipline. Everything needed to command an army.”

  That does it.

  My lips pull back into a sharp-toothed grin, heavy and unmistakably pleased.

  “Good,” I say.

  The word carries weight.

  “Good.”

  I nod once, slow and deliberate.

  Then something changes.

  At first, it’s subtle. A pressure shift, like the air thickening just slightly. The stone walls seem to hum, not audibly, but in a way I feel in my bones. I turn my head, senses flaring, and see it.

  Energy.

  It flows into the chamber from nowhere I can see, seeping through the stone like mist through cracks that shouldn’t exist. It’s not the golden surge I felt when killing the dragon, nor the greenish stream from the Dragonkin.

  This is darker.

  Heavier.

  It gathers near the far wall, coiling and thickening, the air warping around it as if something is being pressed into reality.

  Kragus stiffens.

  He sees it too.

  The energy pulls inward, condensing, forming silhouettes. Limbs take shape. Armor outlines itself first, angular and severe. Then flesh fills in, dark and solid, followed by faces snapping into focus.

  Hobgoblins.

  Three of them.

  They step forward as the last wisps of energy peel away from their bodies. Each one is shorter than Kragus but powerfully built, compact muscles packed beneath dark skin. They wear armor that looks forged for war, not ceremony.

  Short swords hang at their sides.

  Their armor is unmistakable.

  Roman legionnaire in cut and shape, segmented plates over chest and shoulders, crested helms stripped of ornamentation. But where a legionnaire would gleam with polished silver, theirs is matte black.

  Not dull.

  Absorbing.

  The armor swallows the light instead of reflecting it.

  They move in perfect unison.

  Each drops to one knee, heads bowed, fists clenched over their hearts.

  A message blooms into my vision.

  Hobgoblin Guards, subservient to Kragus, Hobgoblin Warlord. Threat: Medium.

  I glance from them to Kragus.

  Something has shifted in him again. He stands straighter now, shoulders squared, chin lifted. The hesitation I saw earlier is gone, replaced by something old and familiar.

  Command.

  “Looks like you have the first members of your command, Warlord,” I say.

  The title rolls easily off my tongue.

  Kragus exhales slowly, eyes moving over the kneeling soldiers. I can see him taking stock without even trying. Stance. Equipment. Readiness. His fingers twitch once, the barest hint of an order that isn’t given.

  Another message overlays my vision.

  Role Defined: Kragus, Hobgoblin Warlord, assigned role Officer, renamed to Warlord of The Condemned.

  The words settle.

  Kragus closes his eyes for just a moment.

  When he opens them again, the change is complete.

  What do you think of Kragus, the Hobgoblin Warlord, so far?