Return Of Reckoning -

Sir Roland sheathed his sword. “Twenty against a Daemon Prince of Nurgle? Those are not odds. That is an execution.”

Kaelen pulled a crumpled parchment from his belt. It was stained with rust and something darker. “This came by gyrocopter last night. Karak Eight Peaks is not reclaimed—not fully—but enough dwarfs have retuned to their anvils. King Belegar promises two hundred Ironbreakers, if we can hold the line for thirty days.” return of reckoning

A sharp cry pulled him from the memory. Down in the courtyard, a Bretonnian Questing Knight was arguing with a Witch Hunter. The knight’s voice carried, thick with frustration. Sir Roland sheathed his sword

“No,” Kaelen called down. The two looked up. He descended the broken stairs, each step a small avalanche of loose stone. “Lost is when the last hold falls and no one comes to light the beacons. The beacons are still lit.” That is an execution

Kaelen touched the rune-brand on his forearm—the mark of the Slayer’s Oath, though he had never taken it. Not formally. His shame was not failure, but survival. Three winters ago, in the tunnels beneath the Howling Heights, he had watched his entire Stonebeard throng fall to a Bloodthirster’s axe. He had been the last, trapped under a collapse, listening to the daemon’s laughter fade as it turned toward the surface.