Lord Gregor brought down his axe with a thunderous grunt, the blade cleaving through collarbone and flesh as if the man were made of paper and meat alone. The soldier gave a short, gurgling scream before collapsing in a heap at his feet, blood spurting in sharp arcs against the dirt. The axe lodged for a moment, stuck in bone, and Gregor ripped it free with a wet crunch and a curse.
His warhorse reared beside him, black mane thrashing in the firelight, and slammed its hooves down with terrifying force—crushing the arms of another soldier who had scrambled too close. The man shrieked, his limbs snapping like dry twigs beneath the beast's weight.
Gregor spat and urged the horse forward again, carving a brutal path through the chaos, his armor shining with blood that wasn't his . His face was lit by the fires now rising behind the tents, but there was no fear in his eyes—only the savage joy of the fight.
Behind him, just out of the worst of it, stood Robert
