Chapter Four

Confessions of the Soul

Screams filled the night air, silenced as swiftly as they began. There had been seven in total, drinking and boasting about how they would skin the human themselves. Their heads were held high, swollen with pride and arrogance. But they fell quickly, barely able to scream before blades pierced their throats—wielded by their own friends.

Two hours later, Minion arrived with a large convoy of wagons, packed with everything they could salvage. Max stood waiting, no longer with just five allies but now twelve. They were fully armoured, standing beside the naked corpses of their former selves, their faces blank and devoid of expression.

The skal were wary as they approached the elves, surprised to find them readily obeying every demand. Under Max’s orders, the newly resurrected creatures carried their own bodies to be burned. Then, they assisted in loading the carts with every scrap of supplies the elves had left behind, including fine silk tents from the Midnight Kingdom. Once everything was packed, the twelve creatures silently took up positions around the convoy, guarding it as it began its journey northwards along the ancient road circling the city.

Behind them, flames rose into the night sky. The fire consumed not only the bodies but also the houses the skal had painstakingly repaired over months. Their hard work burned alongside their bloody sins.

Max walked at the front of the convoy, his thoughts racing, each decision weighing heavily on his mind. Minion crawled along beside him, similarly tense, but neither spoke, each keeping their counsel.

The convoy’s supplies were meagre—scraps of food and wine, a few barrels of murky water, and little else. It was evident the elves had been relying on the settlers’ arrival to replenish their stores. Max’s experience as the Emperor’s Shadow Guard had taught him the difficulties of moving large forces, but as a general, he’d often delegated such tasks, finding the calculations too tedious.

Luckily, Minion proved adept at logistics, sending out small groups to scavenge for edible plants and prey in the barren Northern Waste. At first, Max worried they would need to stop and set up camp, allowing the skal without mounts to rest.

Surprisingly, Minion organised them so his people slept in bundles, resting upon each other. The arrangement seemed natural, a common practice for their race. This left only the beasts of burden—the mules and horses—as the potential cause for halting the convoy’s progress.

Early the next morning, Max noticed the animals slowing down. He ordered the convoy to stop and instructed the skal to rest the horses. Then, he unhitched the lead horse from the front cart and led it to a nearby clearing. Without hesitation, he drew his sword and slit the animal’s throat.

Surprised cries rang out from the convoy as the horse screamed and collapsed. Even the other beasts of burden grew restless at the scent of blood. The skal watching nearby froze, their fur standing on end as Max raised his hands. Power surged through him, sending a ripple of unease across the onlookers.

From the earth, the horse rose once more, its body tearing from below and reformed. Its eyes were vacant, its flesh crisscrossed with fiery veins that pulsed like molten rivers.

“Detach another five horses and bring them here,” Max ordered, his tone cold and unwavering. The skal hesitated for only a moment before scrambling to obey.

As the animals were brought to him, Minion cautiously approached, his tone a mix of curiosity and suspicion. “Why not kill all the horses now?”

Max’s blade flashed again, silencing the next horse with brutal efficiency. “As with all magic, there is a cost,” he explained, his movements precise and deliberate. “Each summoning draws on my energy. Right now, I’m running on fumes—no sleep, no rest, and I’ve already summoned and fought today. Consuming souls takes more from me than I’d like to admit.”

He glanced at Minion, his expression unreadable. “Besides, it would be unwise to kill all the animals now. Grass is plentiful here, and we may need them for food later.”

The skal worked quickly, unburdening the newly killed horses before transferring their harnesses to the fiery constructs Max summoned in their place. Meanwhile, a group began preparing the butchered remains of the animals, salting and preserving the meat.

“That’s a nifty gift you’ve got there,” Minion remarked, though wariness coloured his voice. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it before. Are you some kind of necromancer?”

“It’s not necromancy,” Max replied without pausing. “It’s called soul binding. If you want the history, I can’t help you—I wasn’t born with it, nor was I trained to use it.”

Minion’s brow furrowed. “Then how did you get it?”

Max’s movements slowed for a moment, his expression darkening. “A madman forced it on me,” he said flatly. “Something about my anger making me a ‘perfect candidate.’”

“How does it work?” Minion pressed, his eyes flicking warily to the fiery horse. “Are they your slaves now?”

Max sighed. “I wouldn’t call them slaves,” he began, though his tone held a faint trace of guilt. “When I or one of my summoned creatures kill something, their energy flows into me. I can store that energy and use it in a number of ways—summoning, healing, even fire magic. But once they’re brought back, they’re... different. They don’t eat, drink, or think for themselves. They’re mindless servants, loyal only to me. They know only what they did in life. Existing only as long as their souls last before vanishing into the wind like a campfire becomes ash”

Minion’s gaze hardened. “Sounds like slavery to me. I’m surprised you’re okay with forcing that fate on anyone.”

Max’s voice dropped, cold and sharp. “You call them slaves; I call them my enemies turned allies. And I never claimed to be against slavery—I just find it distasteful when better options exist.”

Minion flinched at the words, his expression souring. Max wondered briefly if the skal leader was already regretting his decision to follow him.

“Do you have an army of these things?” Minion asked after a long silence, his tone cautious.

“I did,” Max admitted, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. “At the height of the war, I had thousands of them under my command. The power running through me was intoxicating—Godlike, even. But when we marched on the elves capital, they detonated the city and took my army with them. I had to consume nearly every soul I had stored just to survive. Still not sure why the Singers did that.”

Minion’s eyes narrowed. “And now?”

“Now?” Max hesitated, glancing at his lone human servant standing silently nearby. “I destroyed all those who survived the blast. Except one.” The words hung heavy in the air. Minion followed Max’s gaze to the silent figure clad in pure shadow iron armour.

“Who is he?”

Max’s expression hardened, his voice dropping to a measured but icy tone. “He was my best friend. That’s all I’m going to say about it.” His fiery red eyes locked with Minion’s, but the words came out colder than intended. Taking a deep breath, Max continued, his tone softening slightly. “I understand why you’re wary of me. I would be too if I were in your position. But hear this: I swear to you, I will never claim the souls of your people—or yours. I’m not some deranged monster; I did what I had to for the war. Without me, without what I’ve become, the Phoenix Empire—and perhaps all of humanity—would be gone.”

He paused, his voice tightening with the weight of his words. “I don’t expect you to like what I am; I don’t like it myself. But for the survival of your hive, I ask you not to let your distaste cloud your judgement.”

Minion held Max’s gaze for a moment longer before nodding solemnly. The tension between them ebbed slightly, and an uneasy silence settled over the two. Max’s mind, weighed down by memories of the war and the price of his power, drifted briefly before Minion’s voice cut through.

“I’ll take you at your word,” Minion said finally. His tone was low, yet the resolve in it was unmistakable. He raised a claw, pointing towards a clearing where skal children, including Rod, were playing. “If this is what we must do to protect my people, I’ll do it—and I’ll bear the burden on my soul so it won’t be burned into theirs. Around you are one hundred and seventeen skal. My hive, my family. That’s how many lives rest on my shoulders—and now yours. Don’t forget it.”

Max turned to follow Minion’s gaze, his eyes softening as they landed on Rod, the young skal enthusiastically waving in his direction with a toothy approximation of a smile. Max waved back, a faint grin pulling at his lips despite the weight of the moment. Looking back at Minion, a fresh determination sparked in his voice.

“We’ll need birds,” Max said firmly. “The faster, the better. Spread the word—if anyone sees one, they must report it immediately. They’re not to kill them; it has to be me or one of my men.”

“We need to put distance between us and the south,” Max explained. “That means heading straight through the Northern Waste. We can’t linger—there are too many creatures roaming this place, not to mention wandering packs and warbands. I say we follow the Weennore road toward the Thousand Daggers. There are abandoned fortresses there, and traitors of the Midnight Kingdom often seek refuge in that region.”

“And the warband you were searching for? The one mentioned in the letter?”

Max’s jaw tightened. “I can’t justify it. I’ve already put you all in enough danger. Until I’ve kept my word to you and your people, promises made in letters mean nothing.”

Minion gave a small nod, then began organising his people, calling for supplies and maps. A flurry of activity spread through the column as skal prepared for the journey. A weathered map was unrolled across the back of a wagon, and Max and Minion poured over its details together.

The map, likely taken from the humans who had razed Fiskrtre, bore many imperial names instead of those in the old tongue. It depicted Scarvo’s vast and varied geography. At its heart lay the Thousand Daggers, a sprawling mountain range that stretched west to east, often considered the northern border of the Midnight Kingdom. In truth, much of the land north of the range was desolate and unclaimed, a snowy wasteland where, according to legend, even the snow itself was alive. Tales spoke of flesh-consuming frost that left no trace of its victims.

A second range, The Split, extended southward from the Thousand Daggers, stopping short of the southern coast. It created two natural passes, both guarded by cities that Max and Minion agreed would treat them as traitors if they tried to pass. Crossing elsewhere would mean navigating treacherous terrain with wagons and children—a task likely to end in starvation, injury, or worse.

Only a handful of forts lay on the eastern side of the Thousand Daggers, most abandoned since the Immortal War. The Midnight Kingdom had pulled its forces southward, fortifying regions deemed more valuable.

“We’ll aim for one of the forts,” Max concluded, his finger tracing the map to mark their possible route. “It’s a gamble, but it’s better than trying to force our way past the cities or risking the wilderness with so many lives depending on us.”

Minion nodded, rolling the map with practised efficiency. His movements were sharp, decisive—an outward display of the trust he had decided to place in Max.

With the horses harvested for all they were worth and the new ones reattached, the convoy rested for a few hours to allow the remaining living horses to recover before resuming their journey north. They stayed as close to the coastline as possible, following the Weennore Road, which was the nearest usable path. The Northern Waste was technically part of the Midnight Kingdom; however, it was a brutal, desolate expanse of cracked earth where little grew except sparse clumps of grass.

The Wastes, or the Otpa Sjee to the old races, had always been untamed, even before the war. The hounds had claimed it as their territory, but since the war, the region had become a refuge for countless displaced tribes, scattered settlements, and aspiring warlords. Minion spoke of hundreds of packs and warbands patrolling the area, constantly battling one another and assimilating the defeated—taking women and children to bolster their numbers. Fortunately, most of these groups remained west of the Thousand Daggers, where the region was larger and less patrolled by elven forces. However, some bands stuck to the eastern side, utilising hidden passages through the mountain ranges to raid, trade, and then retreat to the east to recover.

In recent years, Minion had heard of growing rebellion in the Wastes—factions that refused to bow to the Midnight Kingdom. The most infamous among them had captured the fortress of Vugleer and declared himself the King of Hounds and the Otpa Sjee. Luckily, the self-proclaimed King was far to the east, focused on consolidating control over the western side of The Split, at least for now.

Word soon reached Max that seagulls had been spotted in the air. He retrieved an elven bow, handed it to his human servant, and instructed him to shoot down as many of the birds as possible. Max had long since learned that bows were not his strong suit—his strength often snapped the string. Each bird killed not only provided additional food for the convoy but also allowed Max to resummon them as scouts. Though he could not communicate verbally with the creatures, he could issue mental commands, directing them to fly north for a set time and take note of anything significant. Upon their return, the birds would peck his hand to convey information, allowing him to glean a vague understanding of what lay ahead.

After a day and a half of travel, Max had nine seagulls at his disposal, which he sent to scour the northern and western regions for signs of warbands, food, water, or any other notable findings. The scouts discovered a small river, replenishing the convoy’s water supply, as well as a herd of deer, which provided a much-needed boost to their provisions. The deer’s souls, once claimed, also granted Max additional energy. Despite these resources, the convoy was forced to halt multiple times over the next five days as the unturned horses struggled to keep up. Eventually, Max resolved to kill and turn every remaining horse and mule into tireless servants under his control.

With this newfound efficiency, progress quickened as the convoy pressed further north. Yet unease spread among the skal. Exhausted from sleeping in wagons and subsisting on meagre scraps, many had grown weary and sore. Despite their hardships, they did not complain, but their somber expressions betrayed the toll the journey was taking. Guilt gripped Max each time he looked at the creatures. He wondered if they regretted helping him, even as he regretted ever entering those cursed ruins. The burden of their lives weighed heavily on him, a responsibility he had not sought but now could not escape.

One morning, a small raven that had joined them days earlier returned with news. It took Max ten minutes of yes-and-no questioning to decipher its findings: a wandering pack was camped to the north, perched on a ridge overlooking the coastal road. The raven’s limited understanding of different races and its inability to name them made identifying the group’s makeup challenging. However, Max gathered that the creatures were large, muscular, and covered in hair.

Max and Minion debated skirting the pack entirely, giving the ridge a wide berth by heading west and rejoining the road further north. Yet, the rugged and increasingly broken terrain would make maneuvering the carts difficult and time-consuming. Determined to gather more information, Max unlatched one of the horses and rode north alone. He left Minion in charge of the column, equipping him with several birds to send as messengers should anything happen.

As Max neared the plateau, he dismounted and left the horse tethered nearby. He crept forward on foot, keeping low to the ground and using the spyglass Rod had given him to observe the ridge. The creatures were unmistakably hounds—large, feral brutes bred for war. Max had faced them on the battlefield many times, their stupidity and raw strength making them the perfect shock troops in elven armies. Negotiation was not an option. The sight of a human, likely responsible for the deaths of countless kinsmen, would provoke an immediate and violent charge. Max briefly considered sending the skal to negotiate, but he dismissed the idea; such frail creatures would be beneath the hounds’ notice.

Surveying the camp, Max noted that the males—towering, broad-shouldered figures—made up most of the fighting force. Scattered among them were women, many with swollen bellies or babes at their breasts. It was a full warband, with all the ruthlessness and cruelty the hounds were known for. The only viable option was a detour, though it would cost time and expose the convoy to other dangers in the Wastes. Reluctantly, Max decided to turn back—until his eyes fell on an unexpected figure.

A woman. A human woman.

From two miles away, Max locked eyes with her, and she stared back, unflinching. For a moment, he thought it must be a trick of the light. It was unthinkable for a male human to live among the hounds, let alone a female. Then he remembered the letter. Could this be the woman he was told to find?

The thought consumed him. He had to be certain. Lowering himself into the tall clumps of grass that dotted the Northern Waste, Max crept closer to the ridge. The woman’s gaze never left him, as though she could see him even through the dense undergrowth. Her unwavering stare sent a shiver down his spine.

At roughly a mile away, Max stopped to observe her again. There was no mistaking it now—she was indeed a human female, surrounded by monstrous hounds. Her presence was baffling. Humans were rarely seen in Scarvo, where the elves’ hatred for their kind knew no bounds. Even enslaved humans rarely survived the brutal conditions, succumbing to lashings or backbreaking labour. As for the hounds, Max’s battlefield experience had taught him that they showed no mercy. To them, the only alternatives to complete submission were death or enslavement.

She stood out starkly among the pack—her long red hair and scant clothing a sharp contrast to the hulking forms around her. Max stared at her, feeling torn. One part of him burned with the desire to save her, a fellow human in need. Another part of him knew the risks were too great. His new allies had already risked everything to help him, and their survival depended on caution.

Yet, the woman felt like a beacon, drawing him forward. She was the key to the promise in the letter, the path to his new purpose. The weight of his dilemma pressed down on him, and he groaned audibly in frustration. Finally, he turned away, unable to keep looking at the distant figure who seemed to silently plead for his help.

When Max arrived back at the column, his thoughts churned, his heartbeat thundering in his chest. He quickly relayed everything to Minion, whose compassionate eyes reflected understanding as he listened. When Max concluded that the girl must be left behind, Minion did not argue.

“It’s a hard decision, but it’s the right one. We cannot fight creatures like that. Perhaps, with time and training, we could, but right now they would tear through us like grass before a scythe,” Minion said. On his way back, Max had scouted westward, exploring potential alternative routes. He discovered that the detour would take several days to traverse, the terrain a treacherous expanse of cracked earth that threatened to swallow wagon wheels and snap the legs of careless horses. The path would require painstaking care. With the decision made, Minion left to give the necessary orders.

While Minion coordinated the diversion, Max wandered over to his old friend, who stood guarding the centre of the column. Here, the risk of being spotted by scouts was minimal. As always, seeing his friend filled Max with sadness, but he needed someone to confide in. Chris had been the smartest man Max had ever known. They had been closer than brothers, despite their differences. In life, Chris had been a scholar, endlessly fascinated by other cultures, while Max had honed his skills in battle and earned a reputation as a strategist. Ironically, Chris had bested Max in sparring more often than not—unless Max used his hammer, which always tipped the scales but left Max bloodied in the process.

Max sighed heavily, unsure of how to begin. “I am surprised you resummoned me, Master. You were very upset when I last served you,” said the creature that had once been Chris, his voice and expression devoid of life. Max had learned that the stronger the soul, the more of its essence carried over after being consumed. Chris was among the strongest Max had ever bound, retaining fragments of his former self that only deepened Max’s grief.

“What did you expect?” Max replied bitterly. “The real you failed me and got himself killed. You think I’d be happy with this… this replacement? You may have my friend’s memories, but you’re not him. Don’t expect me to treat you like you are.”

The creature merely nodded, incapable of argument or denial. “Is there some way I can help, Master? Or do you simply wish to insult me?”

Max stared at him, noting the fiery red eyes that had once been green, and the lifeless mouth where a cheeky grin had once lived. He turned his gaze to the column instead. “I am responsible for more death than I can count. I can kill almost anyone, sleep soundly, and not care who they were. But even after all these years, I still wrestle with the words of our order: ‘The lives of the many before the lives of the few.’ It’s how we protected the world. Yet, when I saw that woman—standing alone, surrounded by monsters—I felt it was my duty to save her. Even if it cost innocent lives.”

He paused, his voice faltering. “And what makes it worse? She’s the key. I know it. She’ll lead me to fulfilling the promise I made to you… and to my own end.”

He expected no response—complex thoughts often eluded his creations. Yet Chris replied, and Max found himself looking at his old friend once more.

“You’re not part of the order anymore, Master. You were banished. The rules we lived by no longer bind you, unless you choose to follow them.”

The words struck Max like a hammer. Since birth, the order’s ideals had been ingrained into him, as natural as breathing. Now, outside their fold, what did those ideals mean? Should he still cling to them, or forge a new path? His mind whirled with questions as Minion approached, crawling his way over.

“We’re ready to leave now. You should get some rest,” Minion said, his tone practical. He turned to leave, but Max’s voice stopped him.

“I’d like to take a moment to discuss alternatives. Perhaps we can still head north.”

Minion turned back, confusion flashing across his face before it hardened into anger. “I thought we agreed there’s no way to help the girl without throwing away my people’s lives.”

“I’m not suggesting we fight,” Max countered. “I just want to ensure we’ve considered all possibilities. Rushing a decision could cost us later.”

“The only way you’re getting that girl back without violence is through negotiation—and they won’t talk to either of us. We’d need an elf of noble standing or someone they fear. Do you see anyone like that around here?” Minion’s voice rose with frustration as he gestured wildly. Then he froze, his eyes lighting up as a new idea struck him.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Minion mused. “There may be an alternative… Taking a long detour would put us in even greater danger of crossing other warbands. We both agree we can’t fight the hounds as they’d tear us apart. But perhaps negotiation is an option.”

“They won’t negotiate with us!” Max insisted, the beginnings of a headache throbbing at his temples. “Your stature would be a joke to them, and they’d kill me on sight.”

“I didn’t say it would be us doing the negotiating,” Minion replied, a sly grin spreading across his face as his gaze drifted down the column. Curious, Max followed his line of sight—until his eyes rested on Darius.