The towering stone walls of Drakenburg loomed ahead, their sheer size casting long shadows over the open fields. Unlike the war-torn outskirts of Valkenheim, the capital stood untouched. Untouchable. A fortress of human might, sealed off from the rest of the world.
No elves. No dwarves. No beastkin.
The King had decreed long ago that Drakenburg would remain pure.
As Erik approached the massive iron gates, he hesitated, casting a glance at Rikard. He had no idea how people would react to seeing a dead man walking beside him. And until he figured that out, it was better not to find out.
He focused.
The same way he had summoned Rikard, he willed him to disappear.
And just like that—he was gone.
No sound. No smoke. No fading light.
Just gone.
Taking a breath, Erik stepped forward.
The moment he entered the city, the difference was immediate.
Inside, there was no trace of war.
No corpses. No blood. No smoke rising from the ruins of battle.
Just stone-paved streets bustling with life.
Merchants called out from their stalls, selling jewels, silks, exotic spices—luxuries only the capital could afford. The scent of freshly baked bread and roasting meat drifted through the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of the blacksmiths hammering away in their forges.
Knights in polished silver armor patrolled the streets, their movements precise, their gazes sharp. The people—nobles, traders, scholars—walked with confidence, their world untouched by the chaos beyond the walls.
This was order. Civilization. Strength.
Everything outside of it was uncertainty. Disorder. Unwanted.
As Erik walked, his thoughts drifted.
The King had made a promise.
Anything Erik wished for—he would grant it.
And being the great King that he was, he would deliver.
So, what should he ask for?
Money? He could live like a noble, never having to raise a sword again.
Land? A manor in the countryside, a place to rebuild his life, far from war.
A position? He could become someone powerful, take command of his own battalion, climb higher.
Opportunity. Freedom. Comfort.
Everything he never had before.
Yet—something felt wrong.
Something was missing.
A whisper curled through his mind, soft as silk, sharp as a blade.
Eindva's voice.
"Powerful."
His steps slowed.
The thought sank into him.
Not money.
Not titles or land.
Power.
The one thing he had never had enough of.
And the one thing he would never let slip away again.
The streets of Drakenburg were crowded, the midday bustle pressing in from all sides. Merchants shouted over each other, guards patrolled in gleaming armor, and nobles strolled by as if they owned the ground they walked on.
I kept moving, mind still tangled in thought.
Then—impact.
Something—someone—crashed into me.
Hard.
I barely caught myself before I staggered back, my fingers instinctively tightening around The Mother's severed head to keep from dropping it.
The other person—a woman—hit the ground in a mess of tangled limbs, nearly falling flat before catching herself at the last second.
I opened my mouth, already annoyed. "Watch where you're going, damn it—"
Then she looked up.
And I froze.
She was young, about my age, with silver-white hair, half-hidden beneath a hood. Her skin was pale, her features sharp—almost noble.
But it was her eyes that stood out.
Deep crimson. Unusual. Uncommon. Dangerous.
She quickly lowered her gaze, mumbling, "S-sorry."
I narrowed my eyes. Something about her felt… off.
She turned, already moving to leave, fast—too fast, like she didn't want to be seen.
And that's when I saw it.
A glint of steel at her hip.
A war-axe.
Not just any axe. A real one. Battle-worn. Heavy. The kind meant to cleave through armor, not decorate a noble's wall.
My curiosity spiked.
I took a step forward. "You a soldier?"
She hesitated. Just for a second. Then, reluctantly, she nodded.
I frowned. "You don't look like one."
A pause.
Then, quietly, "I fight when I need to."
Her voice was soft, almost nervous—but something about the way she said it made my skin prickle.
A shy girl with a berserker's weapon? In Drakenburg, of all places?
Then, her eyes flickered downward.
To my hand.
More specifically, to what I was holding.
The Mother's severed head.
Her entire body tensed. For a split second, I saw it—a shift in her demeanor. The nerves, the hesitation, the quiet awkwardness—all of it vanished.
Without warning, she grabbed my wrist.
I barely had time to react before she started pulling me forward, fast, weaving through the crowd.
"Come with me."
Her grip was tight. Strong. Too strong for someone her size.
I almost yanked my arm away on instinct, but then—
"Fa—" she started, then cut herself off. She swallowed hard, then corrected herself.
"No. The King is waiting for you."
I let her pull me.
I needed to go there anyway.
But as I moved with her through the crowded streets, I started noticing things.
She wasn't just strong—she was built for it. Even through her cloak, I could see the muscle in her arms, the way her frame carried itself.
She wasn't fragile.
She wasn't delicate.
She was something else entirely.
Beautiful. But strong.
"Who are you?" I asked, still letting her pull me through the streets.
She hesitated. Just for a moment. Then, without looking back at me, she finally answered.
"Astrid."
Just Astrid.
No family name.
I didn't know why, but I felt like that meant something.
I cleared my throat. "Uh—Erik."
She didn't respond.
Didn't even acknowledge it.
Damn, this was awkward.
I exhaled through my nose, my grip tightening around The Mother's head as I followed her through the city. Rikard would've laughed at me for this.
"You gotta stop scaring them off, Erik," he used to say, shaking his head at me whenever I awkwardly fumbled through a conversation with a woman.
"You overthink it too much. Just talk."
Easy for him to say. He was a damn magnet for girls—charming, confident, always knowing exactly what to say. Unlike me.
I smirked to myself.
Well, Rikard, looks like I'm still hopeless.
The palace stood at the heart of Drakenburg, towering over the city—but it wasn't grand like the palaces from old stories, covered in gold and luxury. No, this was a warrior's palace, built from dark stone, its design meant for defense, not decadence.
No stained glass. No marble statues. Just solid walls, reinforced gates, and watchful guards stationed at every entrance.
A place where a King ruled, not entertained.
As we approached the massive iron doors, two guards in full plate stepped forward.
Then—they bowed.
Not to me.
To her.
I almost stopped in my tracks.
Astrid, for her part, didn't even acknowledge them. She kept moving, her grip on my wrist still firm as she pulled me toward the entrance.
I frowned, glancing over my shoulder.
The guards were still watching us.
One of them—a younger knight—whispered something to the other, then tilted his head toward our hands.
Still tangled together.
Still holding on.
My eyes narrowed slightly before turning back just as Astrid pushed open the doors to the palace.
Something about this wasn't right.