The stables stood at the edge of the town, cloaked in fog and the stink of dung and wet hay. Horses snorted in their stalls, iron-shod hooves clacking against damp stone. The chill of early morning crept through every crack, curling around ankles and freezing fingertips. It was a morning that seemed suspended in time—thick with the unspoken promise of violence.
There, half-shrouded by mist, four men waited. Mercenaries. Veterans of failed crusades, burned cities, and drunken oaths. Wrapped in chain, leathers, and hardened eyes, they moved little—grizzled statues beneath the gray sky.
They leaned against the railings, sat on crates, adjusted their blades. The creak of worn leather mingled with the distant call of a crow, as if the fog itself held its breath. None spoke loud. Not while they waited for him.
"He never lifts a damn finger for Vienna," one muttered, a lanky man with a scar running down his cheek. His name was Thomas. "Lets his mother and the council rule. Meanwhile, he fucks whores and plays warlord in the south."
"They say he's got Corpus IV," grunted Gerd, a thick-armed man with a battered axe across his back. "That's... god-tier physical magic. Bone doesn't break easy, muscles like iron cords."
"And not a speck of Arcanum," Thomas sneered. "Fucking unheard of. Half-elf without magic? Shouldn't even exist."
"Mages and the elves hate him for it," added a third, Marek. He had sharp eyes and quiet hands, always watching. The other monarchs and Free Cities don't offer him contracts—no monster hunts, no dungeon raids.
He paused, then added, "The elves even have a name for him—'Nalvethar.' Means 'the Broken Thread.' It's a term rarely spoken outside their circles, but a few mercenaries had heard it whispered in drunken corners of war camps and border forts—always with the same wary tone. A thing that doesn't fit the weave of fate."
"He doesn't need their contracts," the fourth, a wiry older man named Karl, said. "He goes into Dungeons alone. Comes back with teeth, claws, gold. No party, no priests. Just blood."
They fell silent. Even the wind quieted.
"Heard he flays beastfolk," Marek murmured. "Not just to interrogate—he enjoys it. Chooses the defiant ones."
"He won't touch them," Thomas spat. "Calls them filth. Says pain is the only language they understand."
"Friedrich would've been ashamed," Gerd said. "His father saved this city. Bled for it. And now? His mother holds it together with grit and scraps—negotiating with guilds, pacifying the council, rationing food to keep riots from sparking—while he fucks and murders his way through Bohemia with us like some damned wraith with a title."
Karl finished. "A butcher with no honor."
Gerd gave a short grunt and added, "At least Karl's got Arcanum I next to his Corpus II. That's more than most of us."
Thomas smirked. "Yeah, not bad for an old wolf."
Karl shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Against that thing?" He gestured vaguely in the direction of Leopold's usual path. "Even with both, I wouldn't last ten seconds. Not against that beast. You saw how he looked at us yesterday—like we were already corpses."
They turned as a shadow approached. Heavy steps echoed over the stone. The fog stilled, unnaturally dense, as if holding its breath. A raven flapped away with a startled cry, and even the horses fell silent. The mist parted like a curtain before a storm.
Leopold.
Tall, silver-haired, violet-eyed. Wrapped in a black coat and leather straps, collar high, expression unreadable. His boots struck the stones with slow, deliberate weight, and one of the horses snorted nervously as he passed, ears twitching at his presence. His aura radiated power—so dense it silenced thought.
They stood at attention. A flicker passed through their expressions—uncertain. For a brief moment, they wondered if he had heard their whispers, their doubts. Of course he had. But it didn't matter. He could crush these men—Corpus I knights, the lot of them—before they even drew breath to beg. And they knew it.
He didn't speak. Just checked his saddle, tightened a strap, then mounted with practiced ease. Every movement efficient. Purposeful. Violent in its restraint.
He said nothing. Turned down a narrow alley that led behind the stables, past the first golden rays of morning sun brushing the cobblestones. His steps echoed over the wet stone. No one dared speak.
Then he stepped into the courtyard. The horses neighed quietly. His men looked up, like wolves awaiting command.
"Sir?" Karl asked carefully. "What's the plan? Northward? Prague maybe? Or... a Dungeon?"
Thomas shot a glance at Marek, who avoided his eyes. Gerd shifted slightly in his saddle, jaw tense. No one else spoke, but the air was thick with tension—fear, reverence, and something darker they wouldn't name.
Leopold climbed into the saddle and looked at them. For a heartbeat, none of the men met his eyes. Karl swallowed hard. Marek's fingers twitched near the hilt of his blade, more reflex than threat. His gaze was sharp, his voice hoarse.
"I've had my pleasure. Now I want two things: silence—and something to kill."
He tugged the reins. His horse snorted. The muscles beneath its coat flexed like drawn bows.
"Yesterday in the tavern, someone mentioned an ironhide. One of those dungeon-born beasts with plates like forged steel and a roar that shatters bone. Tough as a fortress, rare as gold. Leopold's eyes had narrowed when he heard it—just slightly—but enough to betray interest. "Ironhides don't just die," he had muttered to himself. "You earn their death. You carve it from their bones." Somewhere out there. I've always wanted to skin one."
A short silence followed. The men knew what that meant: no plan, no map, no strategy.
Only instinct. Sudden violence. The thrill of the hunt. Somewhere ahead, the forest waited—silent, ancient, and hungry.
With that, Leopold nudged his horse forward. The others followed without a word, boots tapping against stirrups and armor creaking faintly in the gloom. None asked for a plan. None needed one. They simply followed the man who had no fear—and perhaps no soul.