The axe came down like thunder.
CRACK.
Another log split clean in two, shards of bark flying through the cold air as rain poured down from a slate-gray sky. Thorne Braegor, known now only as The Bastion, stood shirtless beneath the storm, his broad back rising and falling with each breath like a war drum echoing through the woods.
Water streamed down the deep grooves of his scarred shoulders. Muscles knotted and tensed with every swing, his arms slick with rain and blood—though the blood was old, a memory still etched in the blade of his axe, not its edge. The forest around him was quiet, save for the hiss of rainfall and the rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk of wood meeting iron.
He didn't mind the storm. He welcomed it.
Thunder rolled across the valley, but Thorne didn't flinch. His amber eyes—sharp, predatory—remained locked on the next log, one more piece of kindling for a fire he hadn't lit in weeks. He wasn't cold. He never really was. Not anymore.
His battered chestplate, still bearing faint traces of a forgotten crest, glinted dully under the clouded light. Mud clung to his armored greaves. His bare feet pressed into the soaked earth, toes curled into the muck like roots.
This was his kingdom now.
A haphazard pile of chopped wood sat beside a moss-covered stump, and further beyond that: a crooked cabin of stone and timber, built by hand. Smoke no longer rose from the chimney. He hadn't lit it since the last traveler passed through—an old farmer with a dislocated shoulder and a broken cart. Thorne had fixed both, then vanished before thanks could catch up.
That's how it was now. Good done in silence.
Thunk.
He stopped. Not because he was tired—but because something in the rain had changed.
A sound. Footsteps. Deliberate.
He didn't turn his head. Just listened.
Wet leather sloshing. Too careful to be a beast. Not heavy enough to be a soldier in full armor. A traveler?
Or worse... a hunter.
The woods weren't safe anymore.
"State your business," he called, voice low, heavy as the rain itself.
No response—just a hush, then movement again. Closer.
Thorne straightened to his full height, a looming figure against the misty backdrop of pine and shadow. His greatsword, Gravestone, leaned against the chopping stump, wrapped in ash-stained cloth. He didn't reach for it.
Not yet.
Another step. Then a voice. Feminine. Cautious.
"I didn't mean to intrude…"
Thorne turned.
She stood at the edge of the clearing, a hooded cloak clinging to her shoulders, drenched and muddy. Her hands trembled at her sides—not from fear, but exhaustion. Magic clung to her like smoke, faint and flickering. A mage. A real one.
"I'm... I'm looking for shelter," she said, eyes lifting to meet his. "The roads are gone. Washed out. And... something's in the woods. Following me."
Thorne said nothing.
But his eyes flicked to the treeline behind her.
And there it was—a shadow, slithering through the underbrush, too smooth for man or beast. Hunger in the air. Something not natural.
He exhaled once, then reached for Gravestone.
The cloth fell away.
The storm grew worse. But inside Thorne Braegor...
A far greater storm was waking.
Rain beat harder on the earth as the silence stretched.
Thorne's eyes narrowed, locked on the shadows beyond the trees. His voice came, low and firm—a voice used to being obeyed.
"Move. Behind me."
The woman hesitated, but something in his tone made her legs move before her mind caught up. She stepped back, boots squelching in the mud, her wide eyes flicking from the towering man to the trees behind her. She didn't know who he was. Not yet.
But she knew a shield when she saw one.
Thorne stepped forward, each footfall sinking deep into the soaked forest floor. Rain slid down his cloak, plastering it against the old steel on his back. He didn't raise his sword—not yet. His left hand hung loose, gauntlet clenched only slightly, while his right rested on Gravestone's worn leather grip.
Another step.
The forest edge trembled. Birds no longer sang.
Then—
SNAP.
The thing burst from the underbrush with a shriek that didn't belong in this world. Long, sinewy limbs. Wet, glistening skin like rotting leather. Jaws unhinged wider than a wolf's, filled with teeth like rusted nails. It was fast—too fast for its size—and it moved like it had once been something human.
Thorne didn't flinch.
The creature launched itself at him.
He brought his left forearm up just in time—
CHOMP.
Its teeth sank deep, tearing into scarred flesh and ironbone muscle.
Blood spilled.
But Thorne didn't scream.
His eyes burned gold.
The beast clung to his arm, snarling and thrashing, trying to drag him down with its weight. Most men would've buckled.
Thorne stood like a mountain.
He looked down at it, face expressionless, save for the faint twitch of his jaw. Rain mingled with blood. His gauntlet creaked from the tension.
Then he growled.
"You picked the wrong woods."
And with a roar like thunder made flesh, Thorne lifted his bitten arm—creature still latched—and slammed it into the nearest tree trunk with bone-breaking force.
CRACK. The tree shook. The beast shrieked.
But Thorne didn't let go.
He turned, dragging the monster with him like dead weight, and smashed it again.
And again.
And again.
Until the bark splintered and the thing went limp, jaw dislocating, its body twitching in the mud.
He stood over it, breathing hard, amber eyes blazing.
The woman stared, stunned, a hand over her mouth.
The bite still oozed blood down his forearm.
He turned to her, sword still untouched.
"You still want shelter?" he said, voice like gravel.
She nodded quickly.
"Then come. This one wasn't alone."
The rain fell in sheets now, the storm in full fury as Thorne trudged back across the clearing. The limp corpse of the creature lay behind him, half-sunken into the mud, skull caved in like rotted fruit. He didn't look back. He never did.
The woman followed at a careful distance, boots squishing in the soft earth. She kept glancing over her shoulder, as if expecting more things to crawl from the trees—but none dared. Not now. Not with him near.
Thorne stopped at the crooked cabin.
A simple thing of dark, weathered logs and a patched-stone chimney. Moss crawled up its sides, and the roof sagged in places from years of hard rain and solitude. It looked like it shouldn't be standing at all—like the forest wanted to reclaim it.
But the forest hadn't yet.
He reached up, hand slick with blood, and pushed the door open with a heavy creak.
Inside was shadow and warmth.
A hearth of cold stones. A table built from an old wagon axle and tree stumps. Hanging herbs. Dust and silence. The scent of ash and pine clung to every beam. A bearskin rug lay near the firepit, matted and worn. There was no decoration—no trophies, no memories.
Just tools. Weapons. A rusted kettle.
Thorne stepped aside without a word, holding the door for her.
She hesitated, staring up at him, and then quietly crossed the threshold.
Inside, it was dry. Barely. She pulled back her hood, soaked hair clinging to her cheeks.
He stepped in behind her, and the cabin suddenly felt smaller—like the forest itself had followed him inside. He closed the door with a soft thud, shutting out the wind, the storm, the world.
Then he moved to the corner, took a leather strip from an old nail, and began binding his bleeding arm. No wince. No sound.
The woman spoke at last, her voice soft but unshaken.
"You didn't scream."
Thorne glanced at her. Just once.
"I've felt worse," he muttered.
He tightened the wrap, then nodded toward the firepit.
"Wood's by the wall. Light it if you need warmth."
He sat on a low stool, grabbed a whetstone, and began sharpening Gravestone, the huge blade resting against his knee like a steel monument.
As she moved to start the fire, her hands still trembling, she glanced at him again—at the scars, the strength, the silence.
"…Who are you?" she asked.
Thorne didn't answer right away.
The stone scraped along the sword's edge. Once. Twice.
Then:
"Doesn't matter," he said.
But his eyes… his eyes said otherwise.
They carried the weight of wars forgotten. Of brothers buried. Of love lost.
And of a man who once stood before a kingdom, unbreakable.
Now exiled. Now alone.
Now just The Bastion.
The fire crackled low in the hearth now, casting flickering shadows across the walls of the cabin. The woman sat near it, hands outstretched to the growing warmth, her eyes still occasionally flicking to the giant man sitting in the corner—silent, sharpening his massive blade with the patience of stone.
Outside, the storm continued to lash the world.
And then—
Knock.
A sound that didn't belong here.
Knock. Knock.
He stopped.
The whetstone paused against the blade's edge. His muscles tensed like drawn wire. Amber eyes lifted to the door.
The woman looked up, confused. "Someone…?"
Thorne stood.
He moved slowly—no urgency, no fear. Just the steady, inevitable gait of someone who had opened too many doors to find too many ghosts on the other side.
The floor creaked under his weight as he stepped to the entrance. He didn't ask who. He already knew. Only two types of people ever found their way here:
The lost…
Or the unwelcome.
He reached for the latch, then opened the door.
Two kingdom guards stood in the rain.
Their armor was polished and gleaming despite the storm, bearing the silver sigil of the southern province—the same province Thorne once bled for. Plumed helms. Cloaks heavy with water. Spears in hand, blades at their sides. One younger, eyes sharp. The other older, mustached, eyes full of recognition.
The younger one straightened. "You are Thorne Braegor?"
No denial. No point.
Thorne said nothing.
The older guard narrowed his eyes. "The Bastion. Gods… it is you."
His hand instinctively dropped to the hilt at his side. Not out of aggression—out of fear.
Thorne's voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"What do you want."
The young guard cleared his throat. "You're summoned."
"By whom?" Thorne asked.
"The Crown," he said, lifting a scroll sealed in deep red wax. "By order of the King. There's war coming to the borders again. They say monsters spill from the north. Villages burned. Strongholds lost. The Seven are gone…"
He hesitated. Swallowed hard.
"We were told to find the unbroken ones."
Rain pattered around them like whispers in the dark.
Thorne stared at them both, then slowly looked past them—out into the woods, where memories still crawled.
"…They summoned me before," he said at last.
"They didn't deserve me then."
He moved to close the door.
The older guard stepped forward quickly. "Wait—Thorne. Please."
The Bastion paused.
"…She died a traitor," the man said, voice low. "But some of us—some of us know it wasn't true. You were right. Back then."
That did it.
Thorne's jaw tightened. His hand gripped the edge of the door like he might rip it clean off. But he didn't close it.
Instead, his amber eyes burned bright—glowing faintly in the dark.
"What border," he said.
The young guard's voice was quiet now.
"…North. Near the ruins of Hollowfen."
Thorne stood there for a long moment. Then turned, stepping back inside.
He didn't say yes.
He didn't say no.
But he picked up Gravestone, slinging it across his back.
And in the firelight, the woman saw it:
The pendant around his neck—silver, tarnished, still worn beneath the old steel.
A ghost that never left.
And perhaps now, a war that refused to end.
The fire inside the cabin dimmed, flickering low as if it too sensed the shift in the air.
Thorne stood just inside the threshold, the door still open to the storm, rain dripping from his hair and cloak, pooling around his bare feet. The two kingdom guards waited outside—chilled by more than the weather now.
Then Thorne spoke.
His voice was cold steel—calm, quiet, and final.
"If you don't kill me right here…"
He stepped forward, just enough to cast his massive shadow over them.
"…I will kill you."
His eyes burned—those amber flames flaring beneath his brow, not wild, not enraged… but resolved. Controlled fury. A warning, not a threat.
"You came to my door," he growled, towering above them. "In the middle of a storm, after all these years, after what your kingdom did to her…"
His left hand, the one still wrapped in bloodied cloth, clenched slowly. "…and you dare ask me for a favor?"
The younger guard's lips parted—caught between duty and fear. His grip tightened on his spear, knuckles white.
The older one stepped back, hand hovering near his sword, but he didn't draw it. He knew better.
He remembered the stories.
The siege where Thorne held the wall for three days alone.
The charge into the burning ravine, where his roars shook men into retreat.
The rebel village he refused to butcher.
The day the Knight of Strength walked away.
"Thorne," the old guard said carefully, "this isn't a favor. It's a warning. If the North breaks through, everyone burns. Even the ones hiding in the woods."
Thorne stared, unmoving.
Then he spoke, quieter this time—but darker.
"Then let the world burn. It's what it deserves."
He reached for the door.
The young knight finally snapped, spear raised. "You'd let thousands die? Because of her?"
Thorne froze.
There was a long pause.
Then his head turned slightly, just enough to show one smoldering eye.
"Say her name again," he said softly, "and your blood will feed these trees."
The older guard shoved the younger one back.
"That's enough," he muttered, and to Thorne, "I'm sorry."
Thorne gave no response.
He just slammed the door shut.
Boom.
The fire crackled again behind him.
And in the silence that followed, he whispered her name—
Not for the knights.
Not for vengeance.
But because it still hurt too much to say it when anyone else could hear.
CRASH.
The door exploded inward in a spray of splinters and rain. The storm howled through the cabin like a beast unchained.
Before Thorne could even turn fully, the younger guard—driven by panic or pride or orders—hurled his spear with a shout.
THUNK.
The steel tip tore through Thorne's left shoulder—piercing through muscle and scar tissue and punching out the back with a sickening crunch. The force staggered him, slamming him into the wall, wooden planks cracking beneath his weight.
Blood sprayed across the floor.
The spear quivered in place.
The woman near the hearth screamed, ducking for cover behind the table.
The older knight followed a breath behind, sword raised, charging with the momentum of a soldier who didn't want to die.
Thorne didn't fall.
He didn't roar.
He simply looked up—and his eyes weren't amber anymore.
They were glowing.
Not like fire.
Like something ancient had been unshackled inside him.
The spear still in his shoulder, he stepped forward, impaling himself deeper, forcing the shaft through as if it were no more than a branch in his way.
The older knight brought the sword down, aiming for the gap between Thorne's chestplate and neck.
Thorne moved.
Too fast.
One arm—the injured one—snapped up and caught the blade mid-swing.
Not the hilt.
The blade.
Metal screamed against his gauntlet as blood ran down his forearm, but his grip was iron. The sword trembled, held in place.
The knight's eyes widened.
And Thorne spoke, voice so low it barely rose above the fire.
"You should have killed me."
With one movement, he ripped the spear from his own shoulder, spun it like a staff, and drove the butt of it into the older knight's gut, lifting him off his feet and slamming him into the ceiling beam.
CRACK.
The man dropped, unconscious or worse.
The younger guard tried to retreat—stumbling, reaching for another weapon, but it was too late.
Thorne turned toward him, breathing raggedly through the blood pouring from his shoulder.
"You had a chance."
And then he charged.
Not like a man.
Like a force.
Like the Bastion of old.
The young knight barely had time to scream before Thorne grabbed him by the breastplate and hurled him through the broken door and back into the storm—ten feet, easy—his body crashing into the mud with a sickening thud.
Rain fell again.
Silence returned.
Only the fire remained, hissing in the hearth, and the soft, stunned breath of the woman as she peeked from behind the table.
Thorne stood in the doorway, drenched in blood and rain, the spear clutched like a broken banner in one hand.
He didn't move for a long time.
Then, without looking back, he said:
"No one sends for me again."
And walked out into the storm.
The rain hit like nails now—sharp, unrelenting, cold.
Thorne stepped into the storm, blood dripping from the wound in his shoulder, the shattered spear still clutched in his left hand like a club. The soft light of the fire behind him spilled into the clearing, outlining his massive frame in a jagged halo of orange and red.
The earth was torn where he'd thrown the young guard, who now groaned weakly, clutching his ribs in the mud.
And standing just beyond the treeline—
Ten more knights.
Swords drawn.
Shields up.
Helms gleaming with rainwater and malice.
Their captain stepped forward—a man in heavier plate, with a crimson plume and a jagged scar down his cheek. His sword was already drawn, and unlike the others, he wasn't shaking.
"Thorne Braegor," he called, voice steady despite the storm. "By order of the Crown, you are to return with us. Willingly or not."
Thorne didn't answer.
His bare feet squelched in the mud as he took a step forward, the wound in his shoulder still leaking, but forgotten. His breath steamed from his mouth in long, slow clouds.
The captain glanced past him, at the shattered door, at the two broken men on the ground.
"I see you've already made your choice," the captain muttered.
Thorne dropped the shattered spear.
It hit the ground with a dull thud.
Then he reached over his shoulder.
And unsheathed Gravestone.
The massive blade came free with a deep, guttural scrape, wrapped in old cloth, smoke-gray steel flashing as rain streaked down its chipped surface.
It was a sword meant for siege warfare. For killing monsters. Not men.
But tonight… it would do both.
Thorne rolled his neck, blood and rain mixing as he took another step forward.
His voice came low—like the growl of a storm rolling down the mountains.
"Ten blades…"
Another step.
"…for one exile."
His eyes glowed again.
"You should've brought a hundred."
Then he moved.
Fast.
Like the lightning that cracked the sky above.
And the knights screamed as The Bastion fell upon them.
The storm bore witness to carnage.
Steel clashed against steel. Bone cracked. Men screamed.
The first knight lunged—his sword aiming for Thorne's chest. Thorne didn't parry. He stepped into the strike, letting the blade scrape across his chestplate, then brought Gravestone down in a diagonal arc.
CRUNCH.
The knight's shield shattered. The blow tore through armor and shoulder, sending him spinning into the mud like a broken doll.
Another came from the side, trying to flank him.
Thorne twisted, grabbing the man by the face with one blood-slick hand and slammed his head against a tree trunk with enough force to splinter bark.
A third knight screamed in rage, thrusting a spear toward Thorne's exposed ribs.
Thorne caught it with his gauntlet—snapping it in half—then drove the jagged end into the man's thigh, yanking him forward and finishing him with a brutal knee to the jaw that shattered bone.
The mud churned with blood and armor.
Thunder boomed above as lightning illuminated the horror.
One knight fell to his knees, begging—"Mercy! Please!"
Thorne turned to him slowly, chest heaving, blood running down his side, and said nothing.
But he walked past him.
Because Thorne didn't kill cowards.
He killed soldiers.
The captain came last.
Still standing.
Still alive.
His sword dripped with Thorne's blood—he had landed a deep cut across Thorne's side during the chaos—but he was breathing hard, legs shaking.
The two faced each other in the storm, the clearing a graveyard behind them.
"You… were supposed to be a man," the captain spat. "A knight."
Thorne staggered for a second, clutching his side.
Then straightened.
"No," he growled. "I was a weapon."
He raised Gravestone.
"And now… I'm broken."
The captain screamed and charged.
Thorne met him halfway.
Their blades collided in a clash that rang across the forest.
And then Thorne did what he always did.
He endured.
Took the pain.
Felt the weight.
And broke the man.
Gravestone cut through the captain's guard like it was parchment, striking with such force that the man's sword flew from his hands. Thorne followed through, stepping in, shoulder-checking the captain so hard his feet left the ground.
The captain hit the mud and didn't rise again.
Silence.
Only the rain falling now, heavy and cold.
Ten knights lay broken in the clearing.
Some dead. Others groaning. All defeated.
Thorne stood in the center, body trembling with exhaustion, blood flowing freely from three different wounds. But he didn't fall.
He planted Gravestone into the earth beside him, using it as a pillar.
And then, barely above a whisper:
"I told you."
His amber eyes burned through the darkness.
"You should've killed me."