Chapter 219 – The Price of Chains
The Iron Brand's stronghold was a scar upon the land.
Built into the jagged foothills where snowmelt carved black streams through the rocks, the camp was a pit of smoke and screams. Jagged palisades ringed the perimeter, studded with spikes made from scavenged bones. The smell of burned wood, sweat, and rotting flesh hung over it like a storm cloud.
Inside the walls, misery was law. Shackled men, women, and children shuffled in ragged lines, their backs scored with welts from whips. Some were forced to haul timber and stone for fortifications they would never live behind. Others stumbled under heavy loads of grain and iron, food and plunder stripped from villages that would never recover. Those too weak to work were tossed aside into shallow pits, left for the crows and dogs.
The cries of captives were constant, their voices hoarse from endless begging and screaming. They sang the hymn of despair the Iron Brand loved most—the sound that kept their cruelty sharp and their dominance certain.
At the heart of this hell, the leaders of the Iron Brand gathered in their pavilion.
The tent was enormous, stitched together from black hides, the poles reinforced with iron chains. At its center sat a scarred oak table, its surface marred with burn marks, blood stains, and carvings of crude maps. A single torch guttered, casting jagged shadows against the walls.
Here sat the four who ruled this den of chains.
Korrath the Chain-Lord—broad as a bull, his shoulders draped in heavy links of steel, each one engraved with brands of those he had enslaved. His voice was iron striking stone, commanding silence with its weight.
Drain the Cruel—thin as a corpse, his pale eyes gleaming with delight at every twitch of suffering. He toyed with a knife even now, tracing circles into the wood with languid precision.
Meyra the Flame-Scarred—her body a canvas of burn marks and ritual scars, hair like a curtain of fire. She smiled as though every scream was a gift meant for her alone, her fingers sparking embers as she toyed with the air.
Garruk the Beast—a mountain of muscle and rage, his tusked grin carved into a face crisscrossed with scars. His cleaver, taller than most men, leaned against the table, flecked with dried gore.
The air vibrated with malice as they leaned over the map of the north.
Korrath's fist crashed down, rattling the torchlight.
"The Hollow grows fat. Six hundred strong. Walls, fields, trade. They think themselves a nation." His lip curled into a sneer. "But they've only fattened themselves for our chains. When the snow melts, we strike. And when we are done, their strength becomes ours."
Drain chuckled softly, a sound that made the torch gutter.
"I'll take their proud warriors alive. Rogan, Thalos, Fenrik, Varik… strong backs fetch a good price. But broken ones? Oh, those fetch more. I'll carve away their pride, strip it piece by piece until they beg to be bought." He licked his lips as though tasting the words.
Meyra's ember-lit smile widened.
"The elf, Lyria. She burns too bright. I'll snuff her light. Her magic, her beauty—both mine to ruin. She will learn what it means to kneel, body and soul."
Garruk slammed his cleaver into the table, splitting a deep groove.
"Kael is mine. I'll drag him through the ashes of his Hollow. Break him so his people see their king crawl before I crush him."
Korrath shook his head slowly, the chains across his chest clinking.
"No. He lives. Kael is their hope, their pride. And hope sells highest when it's crawling in filth. I'll bind him, mark him, parade him before the people. Only when the last of his Hollow is sold or dead will I let him die."
The tent filled with cruel laughter. But outside, their cruelty spoke louder than their words.
A scream cut through the night, high and thin. Drain turned his head toward the sound with a grin. "Ah. One of the new ones."
Outside the pavilion, a young man no older than twenty writhed in the dirt, chained by wrists and ankles. Two guards pressed him down while Drain's apprentices tightened glowing brands against his flesh. The boy's back smoked, the sigil of the Iron Brand burned into his skin. His voice cracked as he begged them to stop.
From the shadows, children were forced to watch, their eyes wide with terror. A lesson—this is what happens when you resist.
Further down the camp, Garruk strode through the slave pens. He yanked a frail man to his feet, only to throw him across the mud with enough force to break his ribs. Garruk laughed as the man wheezed for breath, then kicked him again for sport. To Garruk, suffering was strength, and only the strongest survived long enough to be sold.
Meyra's cruelty was subtler, but no less vicious. She walked among the women, her fingers glowing faintly with heat. She trailed fire along their chains, forcing them to flinch as sparks leapt onto their skin. "Sing for me," she demanded. "Scream, and perhaps I'll spare your children." The flames flared when they hesitated, until voices broke into trembling wails.
At the center of it all stood Korrath. He strode through the camp like a king surveying his domain, chains dragging through the dirt. He ordered laborers beaten until their backs bled, children separated from their parents, couples torn apart. To him, despair was the purest form of control.
By the time night fell fully, the camp was alive with the sounds of agony: chains clinking, lashes striking, fire crackling, screams echoing.
Inside the pavilion, the leaders raised their cups in toast.
Meyra's eyes glittered. "The Hollow won't even know what's coming."
Drain smirked. "And when they finally see, it will be too late."
Garruk slammed his cleaver against the table. "Let them weep. Let them bleed. Their suffering will make us rich."
Korrath's voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"By summer, the Hollow falls. And the world will know that no wall, no king, no dream of peace can stand against the Iron Brand."
They drank, their cruel laughter mingling with the screams outside.
The Hollow was their prize.
And in the minds of the Iron Brand, it was already theirs.