The war camp stretched across the eastern hills like a scar—ragged, tense, and humming with the sound of steel. Tents flapped in the wind. The scent of iron and wood smoke hung thick in the air. From the saddle of my horse, everything looked quieter than it should have. Not peaceful—just… restrained. Like the calm before a storm.
I passed patrols and sentries, all bearing the crimson and black of Blóðfjöll. Some stopped and stared. Others only glanced, then looked again—eyes widening when they recognized me.
Whispers followed.
"He's alive."
"Is that… the prince?"
"I heard he was dead—swallowed by the mountain."
I ignored them all.
My body still ached from the climb. My mind, even more. But nothing burned more than the thought of Rurik—eleven, bright-eyed, barely reaching my shoulder—somewhere on a battlefield.
It didn't take long to reach the command tent. The path there was straight, lined with sharpened stakes and red banners. But two guards stood in front of it like a wall of iron.
"Halt," one said, dropping his halberd in front of my chest.
"The High Council is in session. No entry without a summons."
I swung down from my horse, landing with a thud. "I don't need a summons."
"You're not on the list," the second guard added, stepping forward. "Even princes wait their turn."
I didn't have time for this.
A third man emerged from behind the tent post—a broad-shouldered brute with a sharp jaw and the badge of a field commander strapped to his pauldron. His voice carried the arrogance of someone who thought his rank meant more than his worth.
"Looks like the mountain spat something out after all," he said, folding his arms. "You should head to the healer's tent, Prince. You look half-dead."
"Move," I said, trying to keep my voice calm.
He smiled. "You've been gone eight months. And hold no command in this camp ."
I was already moving when he reached out to stop me.
Big mistake.
I grabbed his wrist, twisted it and flipped him onto is his back, he slammed into the dirt hard enough to rattle the camp floor. His groan barely left his throat before I pinned him with a boot to the chest and turned to the others.
"You going to try your luck, too?" I asked, voice sharp.
The guards stepped aside.
I walked through the flap without another word.
—
Inside, the air was hot and thick with tension. A long table stood at the center, maps and tokens strewn across it like the guts of some great beast. Ten men stood around it, generals and advisors alike, their voices rising and falling in sharp debate.
"The southern wall won't hold another assault—"
"We need to shift our forces to the Ember River pass—"
"Not until the Shamans complete the reinforcement runes—"
And there, at the head of the table, stood Erik Tyrson.
My father.
He hadn't changed. Towering, red-haired, wrapped in his usual black-and-gold leathers. A single look at him turned the air cold.
He looked up when I entered.
"…Well," he said after a beat. "Look what the wind dragged in."
The others fell quiet, eyes darting between us like watching two predators circle.
I didn't wait.
"Where is Rurik?"
One of the advisors—an older man with streaks of gray in his beard—stepped forward.
"You'd do well to show respect, Kyjell. This is a war council."
"I'm not here to make friends," I snapped. "I asked a question."
Another advisor, younger and more nervous-looking, cleared his throat. "Your brother was sent east. Part of a battlement team under Commander Freka. Standard rotation."
"He's eleven."
"He volunteered," Erik said, still calm.
"You let an eleven-year-old go to war?" My fists clenched. "Are you trying to lose both your sons?"
There was a flicker in Erik's eyes. Not guilt. Something else. Annoyance, maybe.
"He's your brother, not your ward. He chose his path."
"He doesn't know what he's choosing!" I slammed my hand against the edge of the table. "You ruined my childhood. You think I want the same for him?"
One of the generals stepped in, trying to cool the flames. "Your father has been fighting this war since you left. Rurik's team is well-guarded."
"No such thing as safety in war," I hissed. "And I'm not going to sit here and gamble on that."
A tension crept through the room. The advisors shifted, a few backing away from the table.
Erik finally moved, stepping around to face me fully.
He stopped a pace away, looking down at me.
"You survived the mountain," he said. "I didn't think you would."
"Why? Because I wasn't strong enough? Or because you didn't care if I came back?"
The pressure shifted in the room.
Erik's presence surged forward like a tidal wave, a heavy, suffocating aura that pressed against my chest. I could feel it—his will, his bloodlust, like a dragon exhaling slowly.
But I didn't flinch.
The runes burned under my skin, answering the challenge with steady heat.
Something flickered in his gaze. A half-smirk. Maybe even… approval?
"East," he finally said. "They left nine days ago. Ember River region. You'll catch them if you ride hard."
"I will."
"And Kyjell," he added as I turned to leave.
I stopped at the flap.
"You won't be able to protect him from everything. Some monsters have to be faced."
I didn't answer.
—
The camp outside felt even more alive than before. News of my return had clearly spread. Soldiers watched as I passed, some with awe, others with uncertainty. The boy who conquered the mountain. The prince who returned after eight months. The one marked by runes.
I made my way to the supply tents first, gathering rations, extra weapons, clean wraps for the road. A young quartermaster tried to ask questions, but I waved him off.
Then I made for the stables.
Grey was still there—loyal beast, taller than most and trained to run through storms. He huffed as I approached, nudging my chest.
"Yeah," I muttered, "missed you too."
I packed my gear tightly, grabbing my daggers last. The moment I strapped them to my side, they pulsed faintly—just once. A heartbeat. A reminder.
I turned back once, looking at the camp's red banners flapping under the stars.
"Don't worry, Rurik," I muttered. "I'm coming."
I mounted Grey and rode into the eastern dark.
This time, I wasn't alone.
This time, I had purpose.
And blood still left to spill.