Kaelen looked at the destrier Zarn rode—a beast of muscle and fury that stepped over ice as if it were grass.

  “And you have horses,” Kaelen noted. “Thousands, you said.”

  “The High Meadows are full of them,” Zarn said, patting the beast’s neck. “They eat grass and run all day. But we cannot eat horses, Lord Kaelen. Not unless we are truly desperate. A horse carries a warrior. A dead horse carries nothing.”

  Kaelen’s mind spun.

  A good horse market prince in the kingdom is around 10 silver marks. They have horses they can't feed. They have silver they think is useless. I have steel they desperately need.

  It wasn’t just an alliance. It was the perfect trade loop.

  “Zarn,” Kaelen said softly. “If we survive this… I’m going to teach you the difference between ‘Sparkle-Stone’ and wealth.”

  “Focus on surviving the night, Lowlander,” Zarn warned. “We are here.”

  The path leveled out abruptly. They had crested the final ridge.

  Below them lay a natural amphitheater carved into the mountain’s flank. It was a bowl of rock sheltered from the worst of the wind, hidden from the valley floor below.

  The Hollow of Skulls.

  In the center of the bowl, a massive bonfire roared, fed by whole pine trunks. Around it, four distinct camps had been set up. Kaelen could see the banners snapping in the updraft.

  One thousand warriors.

  They looked less like an army and more like a refugee camp with weapons. Men huddled by fires, wrapped in tattered furs. Horses stamped nervously in makeshift picket lines. The air smelled of woodsmoke, unwashed bodies, and fear.

  “They are terrified,” Elias whispered. “Look at the sentries. They're watching the sky, not the path.”

  “They’re watching for the Stone Walkers,” Zarn said grimly.

  They began their descent.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  As they rode into the light of the fire, a hush fell over the gathered tribes. Hundreds of eyes—hostile, desperate, curious—locked onto Kaelen.

  He was the first Lowlander Lord to set foot in the Hollow of Skulls without chains in a hundred years.

  Four figures waited by the central fire.

  Zarn rode ahead, dismounting and rushing to a gaunt, grey-skinned man—Zark, the Ash Wolf Chieftain. He spoke rapidly, pointing at Kaelen.

  The other three chieftains watched. One was painted in red clay. One nursed a shattered arm.

  And the last…

  The last was a giant of a man, draped in gold chains and wolf pelts, holding a massive iron greatsword.

  Karsen of the Black Fangs.

  Kaelen dismounted. Elias was instantly at his side, bow unstrung but arrow in hand. The ten Ash Wolf warriors fanned out, creating a small buffer, but they looked uneasy.

  “So,” Karsen boomed. “This is the ‘Iron Lord’ my son spoke of? The one who fights with tricks and holes in the ground?”

  “I am Kaelen Vane,” Kaelen said. “And I see you haven’t fixed that rot in your camp, Black Fangs Chief. Your sentries are blind and your flank is exposed.”

  Karsen sneered. “We do not need lessons from a valley milk-drinker. We need to know why we shouldn’t take your head and send it to Gorm as a peace offering.”

  “Because Gorm doesn’t want peace,” Kaelen said loudly. “He wants the mountain to himself. You think a head will buy you mercy? It will only buy you a slower death.”

  “Brave words,” the Red Hand chieftain hissed. “But words do not stop Stone Walkers.”

  “No,” Kaelen agreed. “Steel does. Strategy does. I have both.”

  He stepped closer to the fire, the flames lighting his face.

  “I offer you a choice. Die alone as proud tribes in the snow… or live as vassals of Blackwood. I offer you grain for your starving children. I offer you trade for your useless stones. I offer you a war where you are the hunters, not the prey.”

  “Vassals?” Karsen roared. “Slaves! I say we kill him now!”

  The giant raised his greatsword.

  The tension in the hollow snapped. Hands flew to axes. Elias tensed, ready to die protecting his liege.

  Then a sound tore through the night.

  It wasn’t a shout.

  It wasn’t steel.

  It was a low, resonant vibration that shook the teeth in Kaelen’s skull, echoing off the canyon walls like the groan of a dying god.

  BROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM.

  The color drained from Zarn’s face. Karsen froze, sword hovering.

  “The Stone Horn,” Zarn whispered.

  High above them, on the ridge Kaelen had just descended, a silhouette appeared against the moon.

  Then another.

  And another.

  A line of massive figures, encased in dull grey plate that made them look like walking boulders. Tower shields. Warhammers no normal man could lift.

  The Stone Walkers.

  They hadn’t been days away.

  They had been waiting.

  “It’s a trap!” someone screamed.

  From the center of the ridge, a figure in black iron armor stepped forward, lifting a double-headed axe.

  Krag.

  “Traitors!” he roared. “The Mountain rejects you! Tonight, the Stone eats!”

  Kaelen drew his sword, the ring of metal sharp and clear in the frozen air. He looked at the terrified chieftains, at the mob of warriors on the edge of panic.

  “Well,” Kaelen said calmly, “you wanted to see how a Lowlander fights?”

  He smiled grimly.

  “Take notes.”