The north wind drove dry, prickly grass across the steppe. It snagged on stirrups, tangled in the horses’ legs, and rustled like a whispered warning.

Randel’s detachment made camp in a hollow at the foot of the hills. They lit fires sparingly, almost without smoke. The horses were kept on short tethers.

Fifty warriors. No banners. No crests. Long travel cloaks of coarse wool concealed expensive armor beneath. Warriors sent by Roxana so that Randel would not ride alone.

Randel sat over a map spread across a folding campaign table. Beside him was Captain Erhard, an old veteran with gray threading his beard and a scar running across his entire cheek.

“They say the Reaper appeared out of nowhere,” Erhard said, tracing a finger across the map. “The Khan’s army was shattered. Even now the steppe folk whisper of him as the ‘demon in iron.’ This Reaper is now Caelan’s right hand.”

“What else is known about him?” Randel asked, lifting his head.

“No one has ever seen his face. He never removes his helmet. They say he married the daughter of a forest clan chieftain.” Erhard grimaced. “Beastfolk, my lord. Not the best company for negotiations.”

“Any company that knows how to win is good company,” Randel replied, folding the map. “Tomorrow we ride into the city. All of us. We are mercenaries looking for work. No talk of Aichenwald. No arrogance. We are poor and willing to lick boots for coin.”

Erhard nodded, but the young knight Falk, seated by a neighboring fire, gave a derisive snort.

“Lick the boots of these savages?” He tossed a branch into the flames. “My lord, forgive me, but you don’t believe a word of that yourself.”

“I do believe it,” Randel said, looking straight at him. “Because the truth isn’t in what we say at the gates. The truth is what we learn once they let us inside.”

“And if they don’t let us in?”

“They will,” Randel returned his attention to the map. “Sooner or later they let everyone in. The only question is how many of us will still be alive by then.”

In the morning they set out.

The city rose from the steppe suddenly — plain mud-brick walls reinforced with fresh palisades, barracks at the entrance, and the heavy smell of horse manure and roasted meat. The gates stood open, but the passage was blocked by guards.

At the front stood him.

Thor.

A massive bear in an unbuttoned black breastplate, with an axe tucked into his belt. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed against the sun in lazy, sated contempt.

“Sto-o-op,” he growled as the lead horse drew level with him. His voice was low and thick, like tar. “Who are you? Where are you pushing?”

Randel raised his hand, halting the detachment. He dismounted and walked toward Thor on foot, head slightly bowed. Humble.

“Mercenaries,” he said. “Looking for work. We heard you need swords here.”

Thor bared his teeth in a grin, revealing yellow fangs. He slowly circled Randel, sniffing, studying him.

“Mercenaries,” he drawled. “Then why do you smell of steel instead of fear?”

“Good mercenaries smell of steel. Bad ones smell of fear.”

“Sharp tongue,” Thor stopped in front of him. His hand rested on the axe. “And why are your men hiding armor under their cloaks that’s worth more than this entire outpost?”

“Because we’re good mercenaries,” Randel didn’t blink. “And good mercenaries are either rich or dead. We’re the first kind.”

Thor grunted. He stepped closer, looming over him. His breath smelled of meat and old blood.

“You’re not a mercenary,” he said quietly, so only Randel could hear. “You’re too… straightforward. Too calm. A mercenary who comes to foreign gates should be fidgeting. Pleasing. Afraid. But you stand here like the master who’s come to inspect the stables.”

“Maybe I’m just tired of being afraid,” Randel looked the bear straight in the eyes. “It happens to those who’ve lived too long.”

Thor froze. Something flickered in his eyes — respect or danger, it was hard to tell.

“You’re interesting,” he growled. “I like breaking interesting ones.”

He stepped toward Randel, deliberately bumping his shoulder, and headed for the detachment.

“Come on, show yourselves,” he walked along the line, peering into faces. “Pretty. Well-fed. Expensive armor. Swords of Aichenwald steel,” he stopped in front of Falk. “This one especially. Young. Hot-blooded. Looks at me like I’m dirt under his boots.”

“I look at you like I look at a gate,” Falk said coldly. “One that needs to be passed through.”

“Falk,” Randel’s voice dropped low. A warning.

But Thor was already smiling. Wide. Terrible.

“Get down,” he said.

“What?”

“I said get off the horse, pup. Show me how mercenaries with Aichenwald swords pass through gates that need to be passed.”

Falk’s face flushed red. He gripped the reins tighter.

“My lord,” he looked at Randel.

Randel remained silent. He simply watched Thor, measuring him.

“He’s provoking you,” Randel said quietly. “You understand that?”

“I do.”

“And you still want to?”

Falk dismounted.

Thor laughed — a low, rolling sound.

“You’re going to die,” he said. “But it’ll be pretty.”

They clashed quickly.

Falk was good. Fast, precise, dangerous. His sword sang through the air, slicing the morning light.

Thor didn’t even draw his axe.

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He moved with lazy grace, slipping away from the strikes at the last possible moment, letting the blade glide an inch from his fur. He was toying with him. And that was more humiliating than any defeat.

“You’re fast,” Thor growled, dodging another thrust. “But the fast ones die first. Because they don’t know how to wait.”

He struck.

One blow. Not with a weapon — just his paw, clenched into a fist. He hit Falk square in the chest. The young knight flew back three steps and crashed to the ground. His sword clattered away. The breath was knocked out of him.

Thor planted a heavy foot on his chest.

“You looked down on me,” he growled, leaning closer. “Now I’m the one looking down. What do you say now, pup?”

Falk stayed silent. He clenched his teeth, swallowing blood.

The knights drew their swords. Erhard stepped forward.

“Enough,” Randel’s voice was calm, but there was something new in it now. Something that made even Thor lift his head.

Randel hadn’t moved. He stood exactly where he had been, arms crossed over his chest.

“Let him go,” he said. “He made his choice. He lost. Anything more isn’t a test — it’s an execution. And executing strangers at the gate is a poor strategy for someone who needs soldiers.”

“I don’t give a shit about strategy,” Thor snarled.

“But your clan chieftain does,” Randel tilted his head slightly. “Or do you make decisions for him?”

Thor froze. His eyes narrowed.

“You piece of shit…”

“Thor.”

Silence.

It fell instantly, as if someone had cut off all sound. The growling died away. The beastfolk froze. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Thor lifted his foot from Falk’s chest and stepped back. Not out of fear — out of pure reflex.

There, at the gates, stood he.

The Reaper.

Black armor, black cloak, motionless as a statue. A helmet with glowing red lenses. No sword in his hand, no threat in his stance. He simply stood there, arms crossed over his chest.

And said nothing more.

Randel’s knights, who had just been holding their swords at the ready, suddenly felt their arms grow heavy. The air thickened. A pressure — not physical, but something deeper, more primal — settled on their shoulders, forcing the weapons down.

Erhard, a veteran of two wars, realized his fingers were trembling. Not from fear. From something ancient and animalistic that screamed inside his chest: run.

Falk, pushing himself up from the ground, looked at the black figure and forgot how to breathe.

“Is that him?” one of the younger knights whispered.

“Possibly,” Erhard snapped sharply. “Don’t look at him. Just… don’t look.”

But it was impossible not to look. The black figure drew the eye like a flame draws a moth.

Thor approached the Reaper and spoke quickly, quietly. The Reaper gave no reply. He didn’t nod. He didn’t even turn his head. The red lenses stared straight through Thor, through the knights, through Randel — toward some distant point where the steppe melted into the sky.

Thor fell silent. He stepped back and took position behind him.

The Reaper took one step forward.

Just one step.

Steel rang — one of the knights lost his nerve and jerked his sword half out of its sheath. Erhard hissed at him, but his own hand instinctively moved to his hilt.

Randel stood his ground. He didn’t move. He didn’t retreat.

The Reaper stopped three paces away.

The silence stretched. One second. Two. Three.

Randel didn’t speak first. He didn’t bow. He didn’t explain himself. He simply looked straight into the red lenses, and his face showed nothing — no fear, no challenge, not even curiosity. Only calm. A deep, years-scorched emptiness.

And that was more important than any words.

“Why have you come?” the Reaper asked.

His voice was metallic, completely flat, devoid of any emotion. He wasn’t really asking — he was stating a fact that required an answer.

“To see,” Randel replied.

“To see what?”

“The one who defeated the Khan.”

“Have you seen him?”

“I don’t know yet,” Randel tilted his head slightly. “I still don’t understand who I’m looking at.”

“That is a problem with your perception,” the Reaper said, not moving an inch. “Not mine.”

“Perhaps,” Randel nodded. “But problems of perception are solved with time and attention. And I have both.”

Thor growled behind the Reaper, but the Reaper raised one hand and the growl died instantly.

“You speak in riddles,” the Reaper said.

“I speak plainly,” Randel shook his head. “You simply don’t want to hear it.”

“What do you want?”

“Let me into the city,” Randel took half a step forward. “Give me one day. I’ll show you that my men can do more than lose to your bears. Then you can decide whether you need mercenaries like us.”

“And if I decide I don’t?”

“Then I’ll leave,” Randel said simply. “And look for work somewhere else.”

“That’s all?” For the first time, something resembling interest flickered in the Reaper’s voice.

“That’s all,” Randel shrugged. “I’m a mercenary. I don’t offer friendship, loyalty, or love. I offer swords for coin. If my price is too high — I’ll go to whoever will pay.”

“And if your price is not coin?”

Randel froze. For a brief second, something alive flashed in his eyes — and vanished just as quickly.

“My price is only coin,” he said. “Everything else is not for sale.”

The Reaper was silent. The red lenses stared at Randel, and it was impossible to guess what he was thinking.

“Very well,” the Reaper said at last. “Enter.”

He turned and walked into the city without looking back. His black cloak billowed behind him, and the beastfolk parted before him like water before the prow of a ship.

Thor lingered for a moment.

“You’re lucky,” he growled at Randel. “Very lucky.”

“I know,” Randel said, watching the receding black figure. “I often am.”

The detachment moved into the city.

Erhard rode up beside Randel and lowered his voice:

“My lord… that Reaper…”

“What about him?”

“I’ve seen many warriors in my time,” the captain said, choosing his words carefully. “But this one… He’s not a warrior.”

“Then what is he?”

“I don’t know,” Erhard shook his head. “But when he looks at you, it feels like he’s not seeing you at all — only what’s inside you. And he doesn’t care.”

Randel nodded without answering.

Falk, riding a little behind, spoke through gritted teeth, wincing from the pain in his ribs:

“My lord… could you have beaten him?”

Randel turned in the saddle.

“What?”

“That Reaper,” Falk kept his voice low so no outsiders would hear. “You are the greatest swordsman in the world. If it came to it…”

“It wouldn’t have come to it,” Randel cut him off.

“But if it did?”

Randel glanced back toward the gates, where Thor’s massive figure still lingered.

“Victory doesn’t always go to the one who wields the sword better,” he said. “Sometimes the winner is the one who knows when not to draw his blade.”

“That’s not an answer,” Falk insisted stubbornly.

“It’s the only answer I have,” Randel turned away.

Erhard shot Falk a sharp warning look. The young baron fell silent, but doubt still lingered in his eyes.

They rode deeper into the city, and the gates closed behind them with a heavy, dull thud.

At the inn, the knights settled in quickly and quietly. Erhard posted guards and checked every exit.

Falk sat on a bench, pressing a wet cloth to his bruised ribs.

“That bear,” he muttered. “He would’ve killed me if the lord hadn’t…”

“He wouldn’t have killed you,” Erhard said, sitting down across from him. “He was testing us. Testing who we are, what we’re made of, and how we’d react.”

“And that… Reaper,” Falk lowered his voice. “Did you see him? He didn’t even draw his sword, but my hands were shaking. I couldn’t breathe.”

“Everyone’s hands were shaking,” Erhard replied. “Everyone’s except the lord’s.”

“So the lord is stronger?”

“Don’t confuse the two,” Erhard shook his head. “Not trembling in the face of danger and actually being stronger are two different things.”

“But if they had fought…” Falk looked at the captain with hope in his eyes.

Erhard was silent for a moment.

“I’ve seen our lord cut down a dozen knights and walk away without a scratch,” he said. “I’ve seen him break a spear formation with a single strike. I’ve seen him kill mages who could turn men to ash with a glance.”

“And?”

“And I’ve never seen him afraid,” Erhard glanced at the door through which Randel had disappeared. “But today… Today was the first time I thought that fear isn’t always cowardice. Sometimes fear is just the ability to see clearly.”

“So you’re saying the Reaper is more dangerous?”

“I’m saying I don’t know,” Erhard stood up. “And that scares me more than any army ever could.”