With Akash no longer a towering ancient serpent—her dignity thoroughly shattered—Garnok hooked an arm under her and leapt.

  Not a normal jump.

  The ground blurred beneath his feet as heat surged through his legs, not as visible flame, but as pressure—like his muscles were being fed by a furnace he couldn’t see. For a split second he thought he’d misjudged it—thought he’d launched too far—

  Then the trench rim rushed toward him and he cleared it like it was nothing.

  He hit the ground hard enough to crack dirt and stone, knees bending, boots skidding. The impact ran up his bones like thunder.

  His chest rose and fell once… twice… and then he froze, staring at his own hands.

  The seal had changed him.

  Not just the red markings climbing his arm like scaled tattoos—those were visible.

  It was the feeling underneath his skin: a steady furnace that didn’t burn him, a power that answered his body like it had always belonged there.

  On his forearm, the snake-scale mark lay dark and still—until his weight settled.

  Then heat rushed into it.

  For a single heartbeat, the scales lit faintly, like embers trapped under skin.

  And just as quickly, it went dull again.

  A voice came from the mark—muffled, furious, and unmistakably offended.

  “Put me down.”

  Garnok glanced at his arm. “You can talk from there?”

  “I can do more than talk,” Akash snapped. “I can also regret every decision I’ve ever made.”

  He huffed a short laugh. “Akash… can you turn into a snake or something small? It’ll be hard carrying you all the way.”

  Silence.

  Then, in the most depressed tone a legendary immortal serpent should never be capable of producing: “Just kill me now.”

  The mark warmed—like a living thing shifting—and Akash’s presence tightened, settling deeper into his skin as if she were curling up inside his veins.

  “You’re not wearing me,” she muttered. “You’re housing me. Like a parasite. Like a curse.”

  “Wasn’t the plan for you to be free?” Garnok asked, already moving.

  Akash’s voice turned bitter. “Free. Yes. Free to live inside a teenage barbarian’s arm like I’m a stamp.”

  He didn’t answer. He just bent his knees and jumped again.

  This time there was no flare of light—only a sharp kick of force beneath his feet, like the air itself had stiffened to shove him upward. His stomach dropped as he soared, higher than he meant to.

  He landed on a thick branch, bark exploding under his boots.

  The jolt made the furnace inside him surge again—and the mark on his forearm flashed once, quick and faint.

  Then it went dark.

  “Careful,” Akash muttered. “If you keep doing that, you’ll snap a tree in half.”

  “Good,” Garnok said. “I’m in a hurry.”

  He launched again. The forest became a ladder.

  Branch to branch.

  Stone to stone.

  Wind whipped his hair back. Cold mountain air tried to bite his lungs, and the heat in him answered by warming his throat like a brazier.

  Akash went quiet for a few seconds, as if even she was surprised.

  Then she muttered, low and sharp, “You’re adapting too fast.”

  Garnok ignored it and kept moving.

  When he reached the outer watch-posts of Ironmaw, he slowed.

  Something was wrong.

  The usual noise—shouting, sparring, arguing, animals kicking at pens—was muted. Fires still burned, but low. Half the outer gate stood open, hanging crooked on its hinges.

  He slipped inside.

  Most of the men and women were gone.

  Not a single hunting party, either. No laughter. No boasting.

  Only old warriors too injured to travel, and a few children running through mud with hollow eyes.

  Garnok felt his stomach sink.

  The mark stayed dark against his skin—quiet—yet he could feel Akash listening through it, like her senses were pressed against his.

  “Raid,” she said softly.

  He didn’t need her to say it. The smell told him. Smoke, sweat… and fresh blood.

  Garnok moved quickly through the lanes between lodges, stepping over discarded straps and an empty quiver. A wolf-dog growled at him from behind a barrel but didn’t approach. Even the animals were tense.

  He reached his lodge, pushed through the hide flap—

  And saw his mother.

  Serena looked up so fast her chair scraped the floor. For a breath, she simply stared at him like she’d been holding her heart outside her chest for days.

  Then she rushed him.

  She wrapped her arms around him so tight his spine popped.

  “Garnok—” she gasped, and then corrected herself, as if afraid the tribe would hear the softness in it. “Garnok. You made it back.”

  He coughed, half-choked by her grip. “M-Mom—”

  “You were gone five days,” Serena said, voice shaking with anger now that relief had found its way in. “Five. I thought… I thought he—”

  Her hands grabbed his face, turning it side to side. Her eyes flicked over bruises, dirt, and then—

  The red markings.

  Her gaze sharpened. “What is that?”

  Garnok pulled back slightly, instinctively covering his forearm.

  “It’s… nothing,” he lied.

  Akash laughed inside the mark. A dry, humorless sound.

  Serena didn’t laugh. She stared at him, suspicion and fear mixing in her expression.

  “Nothing leaves marks like that,” she said quietly. “And you’re covering it like a guilty man.”

  “It’s not dangerous,” Garnok said—then realized he didn’t know if that was true.

  Serena’s eyes narrowed.

  Garnok’s jaw tightened.“Where’s father?”

  Serena’s eyes flicked away—just for a moment.

  Then she sighed. “He left. Most of the tribe left with him.”

  “To hunt?”

  Serena’s mouth twisted. “To assault one of the villages near the Kingdom of Keliemos.”

  Garnok felt heat spike under his skin—not the steady furnace, but anger.

  “Which direction?” he demanded.

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  Serena hesitated. “Garnok—don’t.”

  “Which direction?” he repeated, sharper.

  Serena’s shoulders sagged. She looked tired in a way she hadn’t looked yesterday. “Southwest,” she said quietly. “But—”

  “Thank you,” Garnok cut in.

  He turned to leave.

  Serena grabbed his wrist. Her fingers closed over the mark for a fraction of a second.

  It was dark.

  Not glowing.

  But it was warm enough to make her flinch anyway.

  “What Happened to you down there?” she whispered.

  Garnok met her eyes.

  He wanted to tell her everything.

  About the hidden valley beneath the earth. About the immortal serpent bound to a tree. About the pact. The heat that lived in his bones. The seal.

  But he also knew what Ironmaw did to anything that looked like power.

  They would either worship it…

  Or take it.

  So he said only, “I survived.”

  Serena’s grip tightened. “That isn’t an answer.”

  “It’s the only one I can give right now,” Garnok said, voice lower. “I’ll come back.”

  Serena’s eyes wavered. She looked like she wanted to slap him and hug him again at the same time.

  Finally, she released him. “If you die chasing him,” she said, “I’ll haunt Krutang until the end of his life.”

  Garnok nodded once and stepped out.

  Then he ran.

  The moment he cleared the camp, he stopped holding back.

  He launched forward and the world became streaks.

  Snow crunched and shattered under his steps. His feet barely touched the ground—each push sent him thirty, forty feet ahead. Trees blurred into dark pillars. Wind roared past his ears.

  Akash’s voice returned, faintly strained. “You’re going to tear your muscles.”

  “I’m fine,” Garnok said through clenched teeth.

  “You don’t know if you’re fine,” Akash snapped. “You’re running like you’re half-fire. That shouldn’t be possible.”

  Garnok didn’t answer.

  He didn’t want conversation.

  He wanted peace.

  He wanted to stop the next raid, the next corpse, the next retaliation.

  He wanted the kingdom to stop seeing Ironmaw as a disease to be cut out.

  Akash spoke again, as if trying to distract herself. “So… you were born with fire affinity? In these mountains?”

  Garnok exhaled. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean I don't know.”

  “That's all I can say for now.”

  Akash clicked her tongue—an old, serpentine sound. “Fine. Then answer this. Why didn’t the phoenix flames burn you during the pact?”

  Garnok’s gaze sharpened. “Because I’m used to flames.”

  Akash fell silent.

  Then, softly, “That’s even stranger.”

  Garnok felt her presence shift. “The seal should keep my energy from leaking,” she murmured. “Yet you’re moving like you’re drawing from me anyway.”

  Garnok’s shoulders tensed. “Am I?”

  “I don’t know,” Akash admitted, and that alone was unsettling. “But I feel the connection. Like you’re… learning me.”

  Garnok stopped talking.

  Minutes later, the scent of smoke thickened. The air ahead carried screams.

  He crested a ridge—

  And saw it.

  A small village at the edge of kingdom territory. Wooden palisades. Farmhouses. A few stone buildings. Panic everywhere.

  Ironmaw barbarians poured through the streets like a flood—axes, clubs, spears. Some carried torches. Others carried sacks. People fled, tripping over each other.

  And at the center—

  Knights.

  Not many. But disciplined.

  A defensive line formed near the main road, shields locked, steel flashing as they pushed back the barbarians that tried to break through.

  Garnok’s eyes caught a banner: the kingdom’s crest.

  His chest tightened.

  If this continued, the kingdom would retaliate.

  Hard.

  They always did.

  Garnok moved.

  He dropped from the ridge like a meteor.

  At the last second, heat surged through his bones—no blaze, no glow—just a sudden lightness, like the impact was spread across his body instead of shattering into his legs.

  His feet hit the churned earth. The furnace inside him flared—

  And the mark on his forearm lit for a split second.

  Then it went dark.

  He landed between the two forces—feet skidding across mud and snow.

  “STOP!”

  The word tore out of him with a force that made heads turn.

  Barbarians froze first—because his voice was truly barbaric.

  Knights froze second—because they didn’t understand why a barbarian had just inserted himself between blades.

  Then a familiar heavy presence stepped forward.

  Krutang the Red.

  His father’s shadow fell over Garnok like a mountain.

  Krutang stared, eyes narrowing, as if trying to decide whether this was real or a hallucination.

  “No way,” Krutang said.

  Garnok stood his ground. “Call them off.”

  Krutang’s lips curled. “You came back.”

  “I did,” Garnok said, his fist tightening. “And I’m telling you to stop this.”

  A barbarian behind Krutang spat. “The boy speaks like a kingdom dog!”

  One of the knights shifted, blade raising instinctively.

  Garnok lifted a hand, palm out, signaling both sides. “If we keep doing this, they will wipe us out,” he said, loud enough for all to hear. “They will send their orders. Their paladins. Their commanders.”

  Krutang’s gaze flicked past him toward the knights.

  And then—unexpectedly—Krutang raised his fist.

  A signal.

  The barbarians reacted instantly. They pulled back in tight groups, dragging their wounded, grabbing whatever loot was already in hand.

  A retreat.

  Clean.

  Controlled.

  The knights stood stunned, some breathing hard, others blinking like they couldn’t process it.

  Garnok exhaled slowly.

  Krutang stepped closer. “You think this is peace?” he growled.

  “It’s a start,” Garnok said.

  Krutang leaned in. “You’re not in the trench anymore, boy.”

  Garnok met his eyes. “No.”

  Krutang’s gaze dropped to the red markings crawling up Garnok’s arm.

  Something unreadable crossed his expression.

  Then Krutang turned away, barking orders to his warriors.

  The skirmish ended as fast as it began.

  And the kingdom’s knights were left standing in the street, staring at the barbarian who had just stopped a raid.

  That night, the knight captain wrote her report with a shaking hand.

  Her name was Karen.

  She’d faced monsters, faced blades, faced death—yet the image of a barbarian boy stepping between two armies wouldn’t leave her head.

  It wasn’t just the courage.

  It was the control.

  Barbarians didn’t retreat. They fought until they died or until they won.

  Yet today?

  They’d retreated because the boy said so.

  When Karen finished her report, she stood, shoulders tight, and stepped outside the temporary command lodge.

  Cold air slapped her face awake.

  The village was quiet now—only the wounded moaning softly and soldiers moving supplies.

  Karen exhaled… and then froze.

  Someone stood in the shadow of a broken fence post.

  A figure too small to be a seasoned raider.

  Too still to be a panicked villager.

  Karen’s hand went to her sword.

  Steel hissed from its sheath.

  “Show yourself,” she ordered.

  The figure stepped forward into moonlight.

  A young barbarian boy.

  Barely fifteen—maybe a little older. Tall for his age, built hard. Red markings faintly visible along one arm like scaled scars.

  Karen pointed her blade at his throat. “Why are you here in the middle of the night?”

  The boy didn’t flinch.

  “This,” he said calmly, “is a diplomatic meeting.”

  Karen’s eyes widened.

  A diplomatic meeting?

  From a barbarian?

  Her grip tightened. “Say that again.”

  The boy’s gaze stayed steady, but there was tension in his jaw like he was holding back anger—or fear.

  “I convinced my father,” he said. “You aren’t as weak as Ironmaw claims. He is… willing to talk.”

  Karen’s breath hitched. She didn’t lower her sword. “Talk about what.”

  The boy lifted his chin slightly, like he was forcing pride into his posture.

  “He wants entry,” he said. “Into your kingdom.”

  Karen blinked, stunned.

  The boy continued, “Land. Status. Protection. A place for the tribe under your king—without being hunted like animals.”

  Karen’s sword wavered.

  Barbarians asking to join the kingdom?

  That was unheard of.

  “You’re lying,” Karen whispered.

  The boy’s eyes hardened. “I’m giving you two weeks to decide.”

  Karen’s hand loosened.

  Her sword slipped from her fingers and clanged into the dirt.

  Not because she surrendered—

  Because her body couldn’t hold the weight of what she’d just heard.

  She stared at him, mind racing through consequences: the king’s reaction, the knight orders’ outrage, the feudal houses, the church.

  The boy watched her struggle and didn’t interrupt.

  Finally, Karen exhaled a long, defeated breath.

  “…We’ll leave for the capital tomorrow,” she said, voice rough. “I’ll report this to the throne.”

  The boy nodded once, as if that was all he needed.

  Before he turned away, Karen forced herself to speak again.

  “What is your name?”

  For a moment, the boy hesitated—like two names lived in his mouth and he didn’t know which one she deserved.

  Then he said, “Garnok.”

  Karen repeated it quietly, testing it.

  “Garnok.”

  She swallowed, eyes narrowing slightly, like she was already imagining how the court would react.

  “…They’ll shorten that,” she said.

  The boy’s mouth twitched—half humor, half bitterness.

  “Let them,” he said. “As long as they listen.”

  Karen watched him turn, watched him melt back into the dark.

  And before he vanished, she said it—quietly, almost on instinct, as if she needed a name she could actually carry into the capital without being laughed out of the hall.

  “Garn.”

  He paused for half a breath.

  Not long enough to be hesitation.

  Long enough to feel like a warning.

  Then he disappeared into the night, leaving Karen alone with the cold air and a decision heavy enough to start a war—or end one.