The scent of scorched flesh lingered in the air. Ragnar stood over Drogul's smouldering body, the last wisps of smoke curling from the ruined stump where the orc's hand had once been. The distant hum of the storm magic had faded, leaving only the ringing in Ragnar's ears and the pounding of his heart.
He wiped the sweat from his brow, his breathing ragged. Every inch of him ached, the bruises from the fight, the searing burns from the lightning. But none of it mattered. Drogul the Thunderfist was dead.
But the battle wasn't over.
Ragnar's gaze shifted to the lavish estate standing before him, its pristine white stone marred by cracks and scorch marks from the fight. Despite the destruction, it still towered with a mocking elegance, a monument to Vorrick Greaves' stolen wealth. The gleaming glass windows, the gilded iron fixtures, and the immaculate banners bearing his sigil were all testaments to the misery he had wrought upon Galdor.
And yet, for all his power, Vorrick had chosen to cower behind walls while Drogul fought in his name. Ragnar spat onto the ground, the copper taste of blood still thick on his tongue.
With a determined stride, he retrieved his great axe from where it had fallen. The weapon's edge was chipped, the shaft held sturdy even after the relentless clash, it would serve its purpose. He felt the weight of it in his hands, the familiar comfort of steel against his palm. Then, without another glance at the lifeless orc, Ragnar approached the grand double doors.
The remnants of Drogul's shockwave had splintered the entrance, leaving cracks that stretched like veins through the once-polished wood. Ragnar planted his boot firmly against it. With a powerful kick, the doors burst inward, slamming against the marble walls with a deafening crash.
The luxurious foyer welcomed him with a hollow silence. Ornate chandeliers, golden-framed paintings, and velvet-draped furniture lined the chamber, each a display of Vorrick's ill-gotten wealth. A grand staircase curled upward to the upper floors, while long, empty corridors stretched in every direction. But Ragnar's eyes were drawn to the faint glow of candlelight seeping from an open door at the far end of the hall. Shadows flickered from beyond the door.
Vorrick Greaves.
Ragnar approached, his feet heavy and dragging along the floor. The scrapping of his boots on the wood floors caught the attention of Vorrick from inside the room.
"Drogul what have I told you about picking up your feet" he angrily opened the door the rest of the way and his jaw almost dropped to the ground, his pupils dilated. "What are you doing here? Who are you?" Vorrick put his fingers to his mouth and produced a large, sharp whistle with a smile he awaited for his bodyguard.
But nothing happened.
His cocky smile seemed to fade as his all-powerful bodyguard, Drogul The Thunderfist was nowhere to be found. Ragnar threw the severed hand at Vorrick, its palm was charred and still smoking.
"How could you have… what do you want from me?" he took a step back trying to cr da te distance from Ragnar but backed himself into the edge of the hallway.
Vorrick's back pressed against the polished wall, his trembling hands gripping the embroidered sleeves of his fine silk coat. The weight of Ragnar's glare bore down on him like a storm cloud, and the reek of sweat mingled with the perfumed air of the opulent manor. The severed hand at his feet was still twitching, faint sparks crackling from the rune-etched flesh.
"I'm here for the bounty," Ragnar growled, his voice low and steady. "Vorrick Greaves. Thief. Extortionist. You've stolen the homes of the people of Galdor, bled them dry, and left them to rot."
Vorrick's lips quivered, but he tried to force a defiant sneer. "And what of it? You think I'm the only one? The merchants, the guild and even the mayor, they all take their cut, i'm just better at it."
Ragnar stepped closer, the floor creaking beneath his weight. "You paid others to steal for you. Let families suffer. And when they couldn't pay, you twisted the knife. You're a coward, Vorrick. Hiding behind that monster of yours, thinking no one would ever come for you."
"I— I had to!" Vorrick's voice cracked. His hands fluttered as though grasping for some invisible justification. "They were wasting their gold! Gambling it away and drinking themselves into ruin! I gave them a chance to keep their homes. A chance to pay me back!"
Ragnar scoffed. "At ten times the price."
Vorrick's bravado crumbled. His eyes darted down the hall, searching for an escape, but there was none. The only thing left was the mercenary towering over him, the bloodstains on Ragnar's armour a grim reminder of Drogul's fate.
"Please," Vorrick stammered. "I'll give it all back. Every deed. Every coin. Whatever you want, it's yours. Just let me go."
"Why?" Ragnar's tone was cold, his jaw clenched. "Why steal from those who had nothing? The dwarves who gave me a roof over my head, you left them with barely enough to survive."
"I needed the power!" Vorrick's voice rose, desperation breaking through. "The mayor bows to gold, not to words. Every house I claimed, every debt I held, gave me more influence. I wasn't trying to destroy them. I was securing my future!"
He slid down the wall, collapsing to his knees. His shaking hands clutched at Ragnar's boots. "But none of that matters now. You've won. Please, I beg you. I can make it right. Name your price!"
For a moment, Ragnar only stared. The pathetic heap before him no longer resembled the cunning man who had orchestrated the suffering of countless families. His pleas echoed in the dim hallway, mingling with the distant creak of the shattered front doors.
But Ragnar felt no pity. Only resolve.
"You made your choice, Vorrick," he said, his voice like distant thunder. "Now face the cost."
With a swift motion, Ragnar's fist struck. The blow connected with Vorrick's jaw, sending him sprawling to the floor. Blood pooled from his split lip as he groaned, but no further words escaped him. Ragnar loomed over him, the shadows cast by the flickering lanterns twisting across the walls.
"I'm taking the deeds," Ragnar growled. "And you're coming with me. The people of Galdor deserve to see the man who preyed upon them. Let them decide what's to be done with you."
Ragnar gripped Vorrick by the collar, dragging the defeated man through the grand halls of the manor. The once-pristine carpets were smeared with dirt and blood that Ragnar had brought in, the air still tinged with the faint crackle of spent lightning. Vorrick groaned, clutching his bruised jaw as his legs stumbled beneath him, but Ragnar showed no mercy. He hauled the man like a sack of grain, his strength unyielding.
The streets of Galdor were quieter now. The echoes of the battle had stirred whispers, and wary eyes peeked from behind cracked shutters and crooked doors. But none dared interfere. Some recognized Vorrick, their gazes narrowing with satisfaction. Others turned away, knowing justice had come for the one who had plagued their homes.
Through the winding alleys and bustling squares, Ragnar marched with unwavering purpose. Vorrick's fine robes dragged along the cobblestone, tattered and stained. His occasional whimpers were ignored.
The looming guildhall came into view, its weathered banners fluttering above the entrance. Ragnar shoved the doors open with a forceful push. The familiar stench of stale ale and unwashed bodies greeted him. The mercenaries within paused their idle chatter, their eyes turning to the spectacle of the bloodied landlord being hauled through the threshold.
At the reception desk, the elf woman looked up, her arms crossed and expression unimpressed. Her sharp gaze softened with curiosity as she spotted Ragnar, and then, her lips curled into a satisfied grin when she saw Vorrick.
"Nice job sir, I'm surprised to see that you kept him alive" Ragnar shoved Vorrick forward, the man collapsing at her feet. The elf woman nudged him with her boot, her amusement barely concealed. "Didn't think I'd live to see the day. Vorrick Greaves, without his orc to hide behind"
"There wouldn't be much to hide behind anyway, Drogul is dead."
She nodded approvingly. "Good. Very good." With a swift motion, she reached beneath the desk and retrieved a small coin pouch. The clinking of gold was music to Ragnar's ears. She tossed it to him, and he caught it with ease.
Ragnar gave her a faint nod, pocketing the pouch without another word. Vorrick squirmed beneath him, but no one in the guild showed him an ounce of sympathy. Two mercenaries stepped forward, grasping the disgraced landlord by his arms. The elf gestured dismissively.
"Get him out of my sight. Let the mayor deal with him."
With that, Ragnar turned and strode from the guildhall, the heavy doors groaning shut behind him.
The dwarves' home was exactly as he had left it, small, crooked, but full of warmth. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the scent of roasted stew filled the air. Ragnar's boots thudded against the worn wooden floor as he stepped inside.
Brom and Tilly were seated at the modest table, their weathered hands clasped together. The moment they saw Ragnar, their eyes lit up with a mixture of joy and disbelief.
"You're back!" Tilly exclaimed, her voice trembling. "We feared the worst when we heard of the fight."
"Bah, of course he's back," Brom grumbled, though the smile tugging at his beard betrayed his relief. "Ain't no overgrown brute is taking down a stubborn lad like this one."
Ragnar said nothing at first. He reached into his cloak, withdrawing the folded parchment, the deed to their home. The wax seal had been broken, but the contents were clear. He placed it on the table, the old paper trembling slightly beneath his scarred fingers.
"It's yours," Ragnar said simply.
Brom blinked, his calloused hands trembling as he picked up the deed. Tilly leaned closer, her eyes welling with tears. They traced the familiar markings, the stamped emblem that signified ownership.
"By the gods," Brom whispered. "You really did it."
Tilly clutched at Ragnar's arm, her eyes shining. "We thought we'd spend our last days fighting to stay here. But now—"
"You won't have to fight anymore," Ragnar interrupted, his voice low. "No one will take this from you again."
Brom's shoulders shook as he fought to maintain his composure. He reached for Ragnar's hand, clasping it firmly. "We'll never forget what you've done, lad. Never."
Tilly nodded, her wrinkled face beaming with pride. "You're more than just a guest to us, Ragnar. You're family."
A heavy silence fell over the room, but it was one of comfort. The weight Ragnar had carried since arriving in Galdor had lessened. He had done right by the dwarves who had given him shelter. And though the road ahead would surely bring more trials, he faced it knowing he had left the people of Galdor better than he had found them.
Brom poured three mugs of ale, the froth bubbling over the rim. He raised his cup, his eyes gleaming with gratitude.
"To Ragnar," he declared. "A man who stands when others fall."
And for the first time in what felt like an age, Ragnar allowed himself a smile.