The northern wastes had never been kind, but this stretch of land was particularly miserable.

  The wind howled through the broken spines of dead trees, dragging ice across the barren tundra. No game had passed through here in weeks. No men, either—no sane ones, at least. The snow was wrong beneath Korrak’s boots, too loose in some places, too packed in others, as if the ground itself had shifted beneath it.

  He did not like that.

  The wind carried no birdsong, no distant howls, no signs of the life that usually clung stubbornly to the cold.

  Just silence.

  That was always a bad sign.

  Korrak adjusted the weight of his sword against his back and kept walking.

  He had been following the dead.

  Not fresh corpses—not even frozen ones.

  But the trails they had left behind.

  The marks of dragging bodies, the strange symbols carved into trees, the unsettling paths of bare footprints that never sank into the snow.

  Whatever had arranged those raiders into their perfect little ritual, whatever had smiled at him from the dark, was not alone.

  Which meant it was time to find the others.

  It was dusk when he saw the first glow of fire in the distance.

  A village.

  Or what was left of one.

  Small, little more than a collection of crooked huts, half-swallowed by frost. There was no smoke from the chimneys, though the fires still burned in the center of the settlement. That was wrong.

  Korrak approached, boots crunching against the ice-packed ground. He did not bother hiding. He had found that men who feared being seen usually weren’t worth talking to anyway.

  If they ran, they were cowards.

  If they fought, he’d have answers.

  But the people did not run.

  They watched.

  From the shadows of doorways, from the edges of buildings, their eyes wide, their faces too pale, like they had never seen sunlight in their lives.

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  They were waiting.

  Korrak did not like that.

  He stopped near the central fire.

  The flames burned too low, casting long, twitching shadows against the frozen walls.

  And then—they came.

  A group of figures, hooded and cloaked, emerging slowly, deliberately. They did not carry weapons. They did not look afraid.

  Instead, they bowed.

  Korrak frowned.

  That was new.

  The tallest among them lifted his hood.

  He was old, but not weak, his face lined with deep scars, his hair white as the snow beneath them. His eyes—too dark, too sunken—locked onto Korrak’s, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

  Then the old man smiled.

  “We have waited for you.”

  Korrak sighed. Loudly.

  “Of course you have.”

  The old man gestured to a wooden bench near the fire.

  “Come,” he said. “Sit. Warm yourself. We have much to discuss.”

  Korrak did not sit.

  Instead, he folded his arms, watching the gathered villagers—followers—cultists, whatever they were. Not one of them had stopped staring.

  “I’m not here for stories.” His voice came rough, low, like a growl rolling beneath his breath. “Just tell me what you are.”

  The old man’s smile did not fade.

  “We are the Hollowborn.”

  Korrak’s fingers twitched against the hilt of his sword.

  “Sounds like a bad omen.”

  The old man laughed, soft, breathy.

  “No, hunter. It is a promise.”

  Korrak did not like that either.

  The old man spread his arms, slow, deliberate. The fire reflected strangely in his eyes, making them seem deeper, darker.

  “You are the Hollow King,” he said. “And this is your kingdom.”

  Korrak stared at him.

  Then—he laughed.

  It wasn’t a pleasant laugh. More like a sharp exhale, a scoff full of disbelief and irritation.

  He shook his head, running a hand over his jaw.

  “You lot have the wrong man.”

  The old man’s smile did not fade.

  “There is no mistake.”

  “You sure about that?” Korrak gestured at himself. “Do I look like a king to you?”

  “The Hollow does not choose lightly,” the man said, ignoring him completely.

  Korrak exhaled again. This was already getting exhausting.

  One of the others—a younger man, gaunt, wrapped in tattered robes—stepped forward suddenly.

  “I have seen him in my dreams.” His voice wavered. “I have seen him standing before the shrine.”

  Korrak tilted his head.

  “Good for you.”

  The young man did not blink.

  “The Hollow remembers you,” he whispered. “And you are beginning to remember it.”

  Korrak’s fingers tensed.

  “Not interested.”

  The old man sighed, shaking his head, as if he had expected this.

  “The path has already been carved, hunter. You have seen the symbols. You know what they mean.”

  Korrak flexed his jaw, thinking.

  The symbols on the bodies in the temple.

  The way the thing in the dark had spoken his name.

  The feeling—the awful, creeping feeling—that he had been here before.

  He did not believe in fate.

  But fate had found him anyway.

  He looked at the gathered faces again.

  They did not look hopeful.

  They did not look fearful.

  They looked certain.

  That bothered him more than anything else.

  Korrak exhaled through his nose.

  “Where’s this shrine?”

  The cultists smiled.

  They had been waiting for him to ask.

  Korrak did not believe in gods.

  But gods, it seemed, believed in him.

  And if they thought that meant he was going to kneel, they were going to be disappointed.

  Or dead.

  He wasn’t sure which one yet.

  Maybe both.

  He reached for his sword and started walking.