HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

The Hollow Pass had become a furnace of death. Smoke curled upward in thick plumes, blotting the winter moon until even its cold silver light was choked away. The air burned with ash and fire-pitch, heavy with the metallic tang of spilled blood. Men stumbled and fell upon the corpses of their comrades, and the ground beneath them had become slick, treacherous, a red mire of mud and marrow.

Ryon's blade screamed against the Wraith-knight's in a clash that sent vibrations rattling down his arms to the very marrow of his bones. The creature fought with a precision that was neither wholly human nor wholly of the grave, its every strike guided by a will colder than stone. Sparks flew with every parry, but the sparks were wrong—ashen-gray motes that fluttered in the air like dying embers, dimming rather than illuminating. With each clash, Ryon felt his limbs grow heavier, as if the knight's presence leeched at his strength.

The whisper came again, hissing in his skull, curling behind his ears like smoke. Give it. Give the fire. It is not yours. He bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood, anchoring himself in pain, refusing to let the voice take hold.

The Ashen Host faltered around him. From the left, Alric bellowed curses as he swung his axe, his shoulders bleeding from an arrow lodged deep in the flesh, his face smeared with soot and rage. He fought like ten men, but the Northerners pressed harder, shield against shield, spear into throat, blood splattering in thick arcs. The Southerners wavered. A chant rose from the rear as the war-priests formed a ring, their staffs planted in the blood-soaked soil. Light poured from their throats, raw and ragged, weaving a shield of fire-bright symbols above the Host. For a brief moment, arrows struck the glowing lattice and bounced away.

But the Wraith-knights raised their swords and slashed the air, and the lattice quivered, cracked, and dimmed. One priest collapsed screaming as shadow wrapped about his throat, dragging him into the ground as though swallowed by the very earth. The circle broke, and terror rushed through the men like water through shattered stone.

Ryon shoved the Wraith-knight back with a roar, driving his shoulder into the creature's chest. He barely bought a heartbeat's space. The knight came on again, relentless, its blows hammering like the fall of an executioner's blade. But in that heartbeat, Ryon lifted his eyes through the haze and saw the scar-faced commander above, still smiling. He was not merely watching. He was waiting. His hands rested lightly on the hilt of a sheathed blade across his knees, his posture calm, unhurried, as though the battle below were a play staged for his amusement.

Something in that stillness sent a colder shiver through Ryon than the Wraith-knight's whisper ever could.

"Ryon!" Alric's voice split the chaos. Ryon turned just in time to see the left flank buckle. A wedge of Northerners crashed forward, driving their spears into the Southerners' shield wall, prying it apart. Men screamed as they were shoved into the fire-pitch burning on the ground, their armor turning into ovens of agony. Alric tried to hold the line, his axe swinging wide, but the tide was breaking.

Ryon's stomach knotted. He could not be everywhere at once. If the left flank fell, the Host would be split, surrounded, devoured. But if he turned his back on the Wraith-knight, the thing would cut through him and into the heart of his men.

The knight lunged, and instinct answered. Ryon dropped low, feeling the blade whistle over his head, and thrust upward with all his weight. His sword scraped against blackened armor, biting shallow but drawing a spray of sparks and something darker than blood, a thick smoke that hissed as it left the wound. The knight staggered but did not fall. Instead it leaned close, its helm inches from Ryon's face. From the hollow behind its visor, twin embers flared, and the whisper turned into a rasping voice. "The fire burns brighter. It will consume you."

Ryon wrenched his sword free and shoved the knight back. "Better to burn than rot," he spat, and met its next strike head-on.

The clash drew the eyes of both sides, for even soldiers locked in the fury of their own death-struggles felt the weight of what happened there. In the distance, horns bellowed—Northern horns, deep and cruel. More troops surged into the Pass, pouring from hidden crevices in the cliffs. The Ashen Host's numbers dwindled, already ragged, their line bending like a bowstring about to snap.

Still, the drums of the South thundered, defiant, echoing against stone. A chant rose from the throats of the soldiers, hoarse, desperate, yet unbroken: Ash to ash! Ash to ash! It was less a war-cry than a promise—the vow that if they were to die in this cursed gorge, they would make the North choke on their bones.

The scar-faced commander rose slowly to his feet, as if the time for waiting was done. He unsheathed his blade at last, and even at that distance, Ryon felt the weight of it—a sword blacker than the knight's armor, a blade that seemed carved from the night sky itself, its edge shimmering with faint threads of silver like distant stars. The smile remained on his lips, cold, unshaken, as he lifted it in a lazy salute toward Ryon.

The Wraith-knight pressed harder, as though answering its master's silent command. Ryon's arms shook with each parry, his muscles screaming. Blood ran down his side from a cut he had not even felt in the frenzy. His vision blurred at the edges. But he held on. He had to hold on.

The gorge roared with voices—men dying, men killing, men clinging to the last scraps of hope. Above it all, the mountain groaned, another shower of stones crashing down in the distance. The Hollow Pass was becoming not just a battlefield, but a grave for thousands.

And yet, at the very heart of it, locked in a storm of steel and shadow, Ryon still stood.