Garnok stood in the shattered corridor like the aftermath of a storm.

  Glass glittered across polished stone. Torn curtains fluttered in the draft. Four knights had him surrounded—blades half-drawn, boots planted, bodies angled to cut off every escape route.

  The palace felt different up close.

  Not just richer. Not just cleaner.

  It felt prepared.

  Every hall was made for pleasantries. Every corner was built to funnel intruders into a kill zone. And the soldiers… the soldiers moved like they’d practiced this exact moment a hundred times.

  A heavy voice snapped the tension tighter.

  “State your name.”

  Garnok’s eyes slid across the ring of steel.

  He could run.

  He could break through them like he broke the cell.

  But that would turn this from an accident into a declaration.

  So he lifted both hands slowly, palms open.

  “I’m the barbarian diplomat,” he said.

  One knight scoffed. Another tightened his grip.

  From the far end of the hall, boots hit stone hard—fast, purposeful.

  Karen came sprinting around the corner, cloak flaring, hair slightly loose like she’d been dragged out of a nightmare and forced back into duty. Her eyes widened when she saw the broken window, the scattered glass… and him.

  For half a heartbeat, she looked like she wanted to strangle him.

  Then she forced her voice steady.

  “Your Majesty,” Karen called, breath tight, “that is the barbarian diplomat.”

  The king—still rigid from the shock—stared at Garnok like he couldn’t decide whether this was insult or omen.

  “I thought he was a random barbarian,” the king said slowly.

  Karen didn’t contradict him.

  Because from the kingdom’s view… he was.

  A barbarian in palace halls was never supposed to be anything else.

  The king’s gaze flicked to the broken window again, then returned to Garnok with cold calculation.

  “Escort him,” he said. “To the throne room. We will discuss this there.”

  The knights tightened their circle.

  Not aggressive, not panicked—professional.

  A corridor away, Garnok felt the serpent-mark on his forearm stay dark. Quiet. Waiting.

  Akash’s voice brushed his thoughts, low and unimpressed.

  So this is the plan? Break into a palace and expect politeness?

  Garnok didn’t answer her out loud.

  He walked.

  The throne room swallowed him.

  It wasn’t just large—it was built to make small things feel smaller. Columns rose like pale trees. The ceiling vanished into shadow. Banners hung like frozen fire. And at the far end, the throne sat on a raised platform, not as furniture—but as a statement.

  You were meant to look up.

  Two knight commanders stood on either side of Garnok as he approached the center of the room—close enough that he could feel the heat of their bodies through armor.

  One to his left: tall, broad-shouldered, posture loose like he didn’t need to prove he was dangerous.

  The other: shorter, still intimidating, eyes sharper, stance tighter like a drawn wire.

  The king sat above them all, gaze calm now. Controlled.

  No sign of panic remained.

  Only judgment.

  “Speak,” the king said.

  Garnok lifted his chin. He refused to bow.

  Not because he wanted to offend—because Ironmaw didn’t bow to kings. If he bowed now, he’d feel his father’s fist in his face even from miles away.

  “My father,” Garnok said, “the chieftain of Ironmaw, wants peace with your kingdom.”

  A murmur rippled through the chamber. Not loud—restrained. But it carried disbelief all the same.

  The king’s voice stayed level.

  “Under what grounds?”

  Garnok didn’t hesitate.

  “Make him a noble presence within your kingdom,” he said. “Allow him to keep his territory. Recognize Ironmaw as land under the crown.”

  The king’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  “And in exchange?”

  Garnok’s mouth tightened. He hated how much this sounded like begging. He hated how much his father would spit on these words.

  But he spoke anyway.

  “He will allow trade between our people,” Garnok said. “He will end raids on villages and farms under your rule. And if you agree… we will be allies instead of enemies.”

  Silence.

  It stretched long enough for Garnok to hear his own breathing.

  The king leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the throne’s armrests.

  “How can we trust this agreement?” he asked.

  The question wasn’t angry.

  It was worse.

  It was reasonable.

  Garnok nodded once.

  “You can’t,” he admitted. “Not with words.”

  The king’s gaze sharpened.

  Garnok continued. “So make him a citizen in your kingdom. Give him a title. Give him obligations. Bind him with law. And bind me with something stronger.”

  The king watched him like a predator watches a clever animal.

  Garnok met his eyes.

  “Put me,” he said, “into one of your knight orders.”

  A faint stir went through the room.

  Garnok pressed on before the momentum died.

  “I will be your insurance,” he said. “If Ironmaw breaks the peace, you can punish me first. You can use me as leverage. A hostage if you want to call it that.”

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  Karen’s jaw tightened in the back of the room.

  Akash’s voice hissed in Garnok’s head.

  You’re offering yourself like a collar.

  Garnok kept his face still.

  The king didn’t respond immediately.

  He studied Garnok—red markings, barbarian posture, unbowed chin, and eyes that were too steady for a boy who had just shattered a palace window.

  Then the king spoke.

  “Very well.”

  The chamber froze.

  The king lifted his hand.

  “Send the knights of the Grimory family to Ironmaw’s territory,” he ordered. “They will accept the agreement, witness the terms, and report directly to the crown.”

  Garnok’s chest loosened slightly.

  Not relief.

  Not victory.

  Just… a first crack in the wall.

  The king’s eyes shifted to Karen.

  “And you,” the king said, voice hardening. “You will oversee the barbarian.”

  Karen stiffened. “Your Majesty—”

  The king cut her off.

  “He will join the Onyx Knights,” the king said. “He will be under your supervision.”

  Karen sneezed—sharp and sudden—like her body itself rejected the sentence.

  Then she recovered, face unreadable.

  “Why do I feel chills,” she muttered.

  Garnok smiled.

  He couldn’t help it.

  In his head, he heard his own thoughts like a knife sliding from its sheath.

  I finally took my first step toward getting back at them.

  The serpent mark stayed dark, but Akash’s disgust radiated through his veins.

  You’re grinning like a fool.

  Garnok kept the grin anyway.

  The king’s gaze narrowed.

  “Do not mistake this for trust,” he warned. “This is a trial.”

  Garnok nodded once. “Understood.”

  The king lifted two fingers.

  “Remove him from my sight.”

  The two knight commanders stepped closer.

  Garnok turned and walked, escorted out of the throne room like a dangerous animal granted temporary leash.

  The corridor outside felt colder after the throne room’s heat.

  The two commanders stayed at Garnok’s sides until the doors shut behind them. Only then did the taller one speak.

  “I’m Riktor,” he said, voice amused. “And this grumpy man is Maldon.”

  Maldon didn’t look amused.

  He looked like a blade deciding where to cut.

  Riktor had short brown hair and brown eyes, a tall frame that made even palace guards seem smaller. Maldon was shorter in comparison, but his silver hair and ice-blue eyes made him look carved from winter.

  Maldon’s gaze pinned Garnok.

  “I don’t trust you for a second,” Maldon said. “I will end you the moment you show hostility to this kingdom.”

  Silence followed.

  Not awkward.

  Not uncertain.

  A silence that demanded reaction.

  Garnok answered with a smile.

  It wasn’t friendly.

  It was the same barbarian amusement that had gotten him chained.

  Maldon’s eye twitched.

  Riktor laughed—one sharp burst that broke the tension like a thrown stone breaking ice.

  He reached over and placed his hand on Maldon’s head like Maldon was a stubborn younger brother.

  “Stop glaring,” Riktor said. “If he really wanted to fight us, he could.”

  Maldon stiffened. “Don’t—”

  Riktor’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at Garnok. “He might not be as strong as us,” Riktor continued, tone lighter than his gaze, “but we might lose an eye if we got careless.”

  Maldon’s stare returned to Garnok.

  Garnok’s smile stayed.

  It bothered Maldon more than any threat.

  They walked.

  Past windows that poured pale daylight onto the floor. Past tapestries and guards and servants who looked away too quickly when they saw him.

  Garnok’s mind churned.

  He was in the palace. He’d spoken to the king. He’d secured the first move.

  Now he needed knowledge—structure, enemies, faith, power.

  He glanced at the two commanders.

  “Is there a faith,” he asked, “or religion in Keliemos?”

  Riktor looked genuinely confused for a second. Like a barbarian asking about gods was the last thing he expected.

  Maldon answered instead, voice clipped.

  “There are three major faiths recognized in Keliemos.”

  Garnok frowned. “Three?”

  In his past life, faiths didn’t coexist peacefully. One always swallowed the rest.

  Maldon continued, counting on his fingers as if reciting something taught in childhood.

  “Tengen. Jura. Saryn.”

  Garnok felt something twist in his chest at the name Jura—the crying goddess. The one that had looked at him like she wanted to forgive him for existing.

  Maldon kept talking, unaware of the shift inside him.

  “The Church of Forgiveness is the most prominent,” he said. “They hold influence with the crown and the noble houses. The Church of Sacrifice maintains strong paladin orders that often act independent of the king’s army.”

  Riktor’s tone changed slightly—less joking, more warning.

  “Don’t fight a paladin of sacrifice,” Riktor said.

  Garnok glanced at him. “Why?”

  Riktor’s eyes stayed forward.

  “Because the longer the fight lasts,” he said, “the stronger they get.”

  Maldon nodded once, backing him up.

  “They sacrifice their own flesh and blood for divine power until they die,” Maldon added. “Most of them are fanatics. They don’t retreat. They don’t surrender.”

  Riktor exhaled. “Only the saint is an exception to the rule.”

  Garnok’s attention sharpened. “Saint?”

  Riktor’s mouth tightened slightly.

  “One of our few sword masters,” he said. “He gains power by sacrificing others… and if need be, himself.”

  Akash’s voice whispered in Garnok’s head, amused in the wrong way.

  Sacrifice power. Charming.

  Garnok ignored her and kept walking.

  Maldon spoke again.

  “Even with the saint,” he said, “the knights remain wary of the Church of Vengeance.”

  Garnok’s head turned slightly. “Vengeance?”

  Riktor’s earlier humor returned—thin and cautious.

  “The Church of Vengeance is full of assassins,” he said. “That’s pretty much what we know. They don’t parade. They don’t recruit publicly. They don’t build grand cathedrals in city centers.”

  Maldon’s eyes narrowed, as if he didn’t like even speaking about them in open hallways.

  “They don’t have a saint,” Maldon said. “Not officially. But they have something else.”

  Garnok’s voice lowered. “What.”

  “Their high priestess,” Maldon said. “A saintess-like figure.”

  Riktor snorted. “Except her ‘divine power’ isn’t for healing or mercy.”

  Maldon’s tone went colder.

  “What we know,” he said, “is that she uses it for assassinations.”

  Garnok absorbed it in silence.

  Three churches.

  One tied to politics and healing. One tied to sacrifice and warfare. One tied to vengeance and hidden knives.

  His lips parted slightly.

  “How is the Church of Forgiveness so strong?” he asked.

  Riktor shrugged.

  “They’re not strong in battle,” he said. “Not the way sacrifice is. They’re strong in connections. They’re allied with both other churches in different ways—and with the king.”

  Maldon added, “They also have the best healers. They seek out anyone skilled in healing and defensive magic and recruit them early.”

  Riktor’s expression soured slightly.

  “I guess the only flaw you can name,” he said, “is their saintess and their high priestess.”

  Garnok blinked. “How is that a flaw?”

  Maldon’s mouth tightened like he regretted knowing the answer.

  “The saintess is a gigantic crybaby,” Maldon said. “And even though the high priestess is forgiving, she has a short temper.”

  Garnok’s brow lifted. “Short temper?”

  Riktor chuckled.

  “The king’s third son,” he said, “Ryn—got beaten to a pulp once.”

  Maldon nodded. “And then healed back to normal by the high priestess.”

  Garnok stared. “She beat him?”

  Riktor’s smile turned weirdly fond, like it was a scandal everyone knew but nobody dared say too loudly.

  “You could say,” Riktor said, “she’s the only fighter in the Church of Forgiveness. Among clerics and priests, she’s the one who throws hands.”

  Garnok kept his face neutral, but his mind lit up.

  Jura’s saintess.

  Jura’s high priestess.

  If faith was power in this world—and it clearly was—then speaking with them could change everything.

  Not just politically.

  Personally.

  He felt Akash shift within him, suspicious.

  You’re thinking too loudly.

  Garnok’s mouth twitched.

  In his head, he spoke as if the thought itself were a vow.

  My first goal is to talk to the high priestess… and the saint of Jura.

  Akash’s voice snapped back.

  What do you mean by that?

  Garnok blinked, then smirked.

  “I forgot you were in my head too,” he muttered out loud.

  Riktor glanced sideways. “Talking to yourself now?”

  Garnok waved it off. “Forget about it.”

  They passed another stretch of hallway windows.

  Light poured down in clean beams, turning dust into floating gold. It struck Garnok’s red markings and made them look sharper than they were.

  He grinned—not because he was happy.

  Because he could finally see the shape of the battlefield.

  Three churches.

  Knight orders.

  A crown willing to use him.

  And a kingdom full of people who would call him “Garn” like they could shorten his existence into something they weren’t afraid of.

  Garnok’s grin widened anyway.

  Step by step, he walked deeper into Keliemos.

  And this time…

  he wasn’t wandering into enemy land.

  He was entering it on purpose.