Book One – Chapter 13

But the krag’s grip was ironclad, his every muscle coiled, his sinews stretched to their limit as he held firm, his mind focused only on the kill. He felt the beast’s struggles weakening, his movements becoming more desperate —

From the blinding storm, she came, a blackened blur of fury, claws poised to kill. The scorchborn descended from above with lethal precision, her fingernails aimed to pierce Gorak’s neck in one swift stroke. He had not seen her coming — had not sensed the threat. The storm had swallowed her approach, masking her presence in its vicious white howl. But years of brutal survival had taught Gorak to react without thought, to trust the instincts honed by blood and war.

In the heartbeat before her claws struck true, Gorak twisted, a brutal shift of muscle and sinew. His arm raised to meet the attack, and though her jagged talons bit deep, carving searing lines into his forearm, he barely registered the injury. Hot blood spilled, steaming as it hit the frozen air, but his mind was not tethered to the pain. Battle frenzy surged through his veins, drowning out the sting with a savage flood of rage.

He moved with predatory violence. In one fluid motion, Gorak seized her leg, hauled her up with a brutal heave and sent her frail form sprawling across the voltera’s back. Shrieking, she was thrown off and out of sight, swallowed by the jagged cliffs below.

Gorak almost followed her, his balance faltering as the beast beneath him thrashed wildly, but his fingers found purchase. Teeth gritted, his muscles bunched, iron-strong, as he clung to the voltera’s massive form, every fibre in his body straining to hold on while he drew his axe once more. There was no battle cry, no shout of triumph, no bellow of rage — the final blow, as orc custom dictated, was always delivered in silence.