Joran moved through the forest on foot, his steps steady but cautious. Though his magic could easily summon a shadow-steed to carry him, he chose not to. He wanted to walk and enjoy his surroundings for a change.

  The rhythmic crunch of leaves and twigs beneath his boots was his only companion as he pressed onward, guided by the last words of the strange man he’d met by the brook.

  “Head east. Don’t stop.”

  Joran hadn’t wanted to believe him at first. The man had appeared from nowhere, vanished just as mysteriously, and spoken like someone who saw more than he should have. Yet something in his tone—warm, knowing, and eerily calm—had stuck with Joran. He hadn’t seemed mad. If anything, he’d seemed… purposeful. Watchful. Like someone waiting for Joran to arrive.

  For what, though?

  The first hour of travel had been deceptively serene. The forest was lush, vibrant, still alive with birdsong and drifting pollen. The scent of pine and damp earth clung to the air, and the rustle of small creatures in the underbrush gave the illusion of peace. But gradually, almost without notice, the forest began to change.

  The trees grew sparser, their bark stripped and withering, their branches curled into brittle claws. The underbrush thinned into dry husks. The scent of summer gave way to something sharper—dust and rust and a faint metallic tang, like old iron and dried blood carried on a wind that had long since forgotten gentleness. The sun pressed down harder here, harsh and unforgiving through the thinning canopy. Even the birds had gone silent.

  It felt like crossing an invisible threshold—stepping out of the realm of the living and into a graveyard too proud to fall quiet.

  Then he heard it.

  The sharp, rhythmic thudding of blunt force—metal on flesh or bone—punctuated by a distant, roaring chorus. Voices rose in crude, guttural tones, mingling with the jangle of chains, the hiss of steam, and the dull clang of weapons. Joran moved carefully up the incline of a jagged ridge, and as he reached the crest, the full view unfolded before him.

  Korr’s maw.

  It was a sprawling settlement built atop the bones of an ancient battlefield, the kind of place where wars had never truly ended—only changed hands. Crude walls of rusted metal and salvaged siege engines formed a crude fortress perimeter. The gates yawned open like the maw of some beast, guarded by warriors in patchwork armor, their weapons as mismatched as their sneers.

  Inside, it was chaos—organized only by the rule of force. Shanties and tents packed close together like carrion birds around a corpse. Forges belched smoke into the sky. Merchants hawked their wares with sharp-toothed smiles, their goods ranging from rusted swords to shackled mythics. The scent of sweat, blood, and roasting meat filled the air, mingling into a stench that clung to everything.

  And at the heart of it all, carved deep into the earth, was The Maw—a massive arena surrounded by jagged walls and tiered stands teeming with spectators. Even from where he stood, Joran could hear the crowd: laughter, jeers, the thunder of boots, and the sound of someone screaming—agony or rage, it was hard to tell.

  His gaze drifted beyond it, to the structure looming high above the arena: The Warlord’s Hold. A fortress built on old ruins, reinforced with sheets of dark iron, spiked towers jutting like broken teeth. It looked less like a seat of rule and more like a throne carved from the spine of something ancient.

  Joran stood in silence, absorbing the sight.

  Is this where that stranger meant to send me?

  It felt like a cruel joke. Or perhaps a test. If that man had been more than he seemed—some wandering prophet, or something more dangerous—then this was no accident. Maybe Korr’s Maw wasn’t a mistake. Maybe it was fate. But if so, then whatever waited for him here wouldn’t be guidance. It would be a crucible.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Joran adjusted the strap of his cloak, feeling the weight of the Vermillion Fang at his back, and began his descent into the Maw.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Joran walked through the settlement’s main entrance with his hood pulled low, shoulders tense beneath his cloak. The very air of the place scraped against his nerves—thick with smoke, sweat, and barely restrained violence. Korr’s Maw was unlike any settlement he’d ever seen.

  The streets were wide but chaotic, more like warpaths than proper roads. They were choked with bodies—mercenaries of every size and race, from burly humans and horned beastkin to towering ogres and sinewy dark elves. Their weapons clanked as they walked, some dragging swords behind them, others already bloodstained from earlier brawls. Mythics weren’t just among them—they were beneath them. Literally.

  Cages lined the thoroughfares, rusted iron bars containing slaves of every kind: elves with bruised faces, gnomes too weak to stand, minotaurs muzzled and shackled at the neck. Even children were among them, huddled in corners with too-wide eyes. Chains dragged across the dirt as slave drivers barked orders or whipped sluggish captives into motion. Others weren’t even caged—they served. Joran passed a group of slaves forced to haul barrels of blackwater ale up a steep slope, their bare feet bloodied from the rocks.

  He gritted his teeth and kept moving.

  The streets echoed with noise—cries of pain, laughter laced with cruelty, and the ever-present roar from the arena. The Maw. Its massive, circular structure loomed at the center of the city like a gaping wound in the earth, the sound of metal on metal and the bloodthirsty cheers of spectators spilling out from its depths. Somewhere in that pit, warriors were dying for sport.

  And around him, life mirrored the chaos. Fights broke out with no warning. A minotaur slammed a dwarf through a cart for spilling mead. Two elven duelists clashed in the middle of the street while onlookers placed bets. A trio of humans shoved a satyr through a door, laughing as they followed for what Joran guessed wasn’t a friendly drink. No guards intervened. No one cared.

  He passed crude taverns and smithies carved into crumbling stone and scrap-metal walls, flames billowing from forge vents, banners fluttering above doorways stained with blood or worse. He needed answers—and a way to blend in. He spotted a dimly lit tavern tucked between two collapsed towers and slipped inside.

  The inside wasn’t much better than the streets. Loud, grimy, and packed with bodies. A fight had just ended in the corner—judging by the unconscious man and the bloodied floor—and no one looked eager to clean it up. A group of horned beastkin played a card game with knives stuck into the table between rounds. A trio of mercenaries arm-wrestled over drinks. The smell was an even mix of sweat, ale, and something rotten.

  Joran approached the bar slowly, resting both hands on the counter and trying to look casual. The barkeep—a broad, surly orc with a chipped tusk and a permanent scowl—didn’t even look at him. The prince was admittedly surprised to see an orc as a barkeep but in Lothara he has seen orcs as guards, soldiers, and even artists so it shouldn’t be too hard to believe.

  “I’m looking for some information,” Joran said, pitching his voice with a soft, traveling accent. “Bit lost. Thought I was heading east toward Vandren’s Rest. Didn’t expect to find… this.”

  The barkeep grunted. “This ain’t Vandren’s. You’re far from anything soft like that.”

  Joran reached into his cloak and slid two gold coins across the bar. The orc’s eyes flicked to them. He grunted again—but this time picked up the coins and pocketed them before finally speaking.

  “You’re in Korr’s Maw, outsider. Four days south of Lothara, give or take. This place ain’t on any maps. Built on an old war field, run by a warlord named Varkul. You’re breathin’ here ‘cause he lets you.”

  Joran kept his expression carefully neutral. “Doesn’t seem like the kind of place people wander into.”

  “They don’t,” the orc said, his voice rough. “But the Maw calls to those lookin’ to fight, get rich, or die ugly. That arena? It’s where legends are made and torn to shreds. You’ve got slaves, mercs, exiles, monster hunters, and thrill seekers all jammed together. And only one rule: don’t look weak.”

  Joran glanced around. He didn’t have to pretend to be wary—he was. This wasn’t just lawless. This was organized brutality.

  “Appreciate it,” he muttered, and stepped away before the orc could grow suspicious. He moved to the far corner of the tavern, away from prying eyes. As he sat, he let out a slow breath.

  This place. This chaos. The violence.

  Was this where the stranger from the brook had been guiding him? Why would the stranger send him here? As a prank? Did he think joran could make a difference? He wasn’t sure. Still… It was too late to turn back.

  He was already in the maw.

  And it was watching.