The wind howled through the Shattered Peaks like a scorned spirit, biting at Korrath’s exposed skin as he crouched behind a jagged outcrop. Frost clung to his braids, the bones woven within them clattering softly. Below, the elk herd picked its way across the icy slope—easy prey, but the clan needs more than meat. His fingers flexed around Fangcleaver’s haft, the axe’s molten core hissing as snowflakes kissed its edge.
A twig snapped.
Not from the elk.
He turned, slow as shifting stone, amber eyes narrowing. A figure—human? Dwarf?—stood twenty paces upwind, silhouetted against the slate-gray sky. Skarn’s low growl rumbled beside him, the wolf-hound’s hackles rising. Korrath silenced him with a flick of his wrist, nostrils flaring. No scent of iron or oil. No stench of dwarf-forged powder. Just… leather. Cold sweat. Fear.
Outsider.
He rose to his full height, axe held loose at his side—a threat and a warning fused. The figure froze. Good. Let them see the scars, the clan sigils etched into his armor. Let them count the bones in his hair.
“These peaks bleed Stonefang blood,” he said, voice grinding like boulders in a landslide. “Speak your purpose… or feed the crows.”
Skarn bared teeth, a line of drool freezing before it hit the ground. Korrath didn’t blink. Let them be brave. Or stupid. Either way, the mountains decide.
