Rain-soaked leather clung to Garrik's massive shoulders like a second skin. He stood entirely still, a mountain of scarred flesh and muscle blending into the dark treeline. Water dripped from his thick beard, pooling on the collar of his rusted chainmail. Cold mud seeped through his worn boots, but he didn't shift his stance. His fingers, calloused and thick as sausages, remained wrapped around the leather-bound shaft of his battleaxe. It was a monstrous weapon, iron-studded and heavy enough to crack a horse's spine with a single swing. Behind him, the Blacktooth Bandits whispered in the wet brush. Their nervous breaths turned to mist in the autumn chill, their hands trembling on their bows. They were desperate men, hungry and wild, but they knew better than to make a sound when the giant was hunting. "Steady, giant," Silas murmured, his voice a low, soothing purr that instantly quieted the rising panic in Garrik's chest. Silas stood just a step behind him, a slender figure in clean, dark velvet that somehow resisted the grime of the forest. He placed a slim, ring-adorned hand on Garrik's massive shoulder. Warmth flooded Garrik at the touch. He nodded once, his jaw tightening as he stared down at his savior. Ten years ago, Silas had dragged him out of a gutter, a starving boy left to rot by a world that didn't care. Silas had given him food, a purpose, and a name. For that, Garrik would gladly tear the world apart. "They are late," Silas whispered, his eyes gleaming like polished silver in the gloom. "But royal gold is always worth the wait." Heavy wooden wheels creaked in the distance, cutting through the steady patter of the rain. The sound of hooves splashing through deep puddles followed, accompanied by the clink of armored harnesses. "Get ready," Silas breathed, his hand slipping away from Garrik's shoulder. Garrik felt the sudden absence of Silas's touch like a physical wound. He squeezed the grip of his axe, his knuckles turning white. His heart hammered a steady, violent rhythm against his ribs. --- Splattering through the mud, a heavy wooden carriage emerged from the bend. It was escorted by four royal guards, their silver breastplates dulled by the grey light of the storm. Behind them rolled a covered transport wagon, its thick canvas top tied down tight. "Now!" Silas roared, his voice cutting through the forest like a crack of thunder. Arrows hissed through the damp air, finding their marks in the throats of the lead guards. Two men collapsed into the mud without a cry, their blood staining the puddles a dark, blooming crimson. Garrik charged. He didn't scream or bellow; he simply ran, a terrifying avalanche of muscle and iron. The remaining guards scrambled to draw their swords, their eyes wide with sudden, primal terror as the giant bore down on them. One guard managed to raise his shield, but Garrik didn't slow. He swung his battleaxe in a brutal, horizontal arc. The iron-studded head shattered the wooden shield into splinters and crushed the guard's ribs beneath his armor. The man flew backward, landing in a crumpled heap. Another guard lunged, his sword scraping harmlessly off Garrik's heavy iron spaulder. Garrik grunted, drove his elbow into the man's face, and felt the satisfying crunch of nasal bone giving way. He kicked the falling soldier into the ditch, his boots sinking deep into the mire. "He's running!" a bandit screamed from the treeline. Looking up, Garrik saw the royal tax collector scrambling out of the lead carriage. The man was fat, dressed in fine blue silks that were rapidly soaking up the mud. He clutched a heavy leather satchel to his chest as he stumbled toward the dense woods, his boots slipping on the wet grass. --- Steam rose from Garrik's collar as he pursued the fleeing collector. His heavy boots tore up the earth, each stride covering twice the distance of the fat man's desperate leaps. "Please!" the tax collector shrieked, glancing over his shoulder. His face was pale, his eyes wide with the frantic terror of a trapped animal. He tripped over a rotting root, tumbling headfirst into a patch of thorns. Garrik caught up in seconds, looming over the fallen man like an executioner. He raised the massive battleaxe, the wet iron gleaming under the grey sky. "Mercy!" the man sobbed, pressing himself into the dirt. "I have a family! There is gold in the carriage, take it all!" Silas stepped out of the brush, his boots miraculously clean as he watched from a short distance. A cold, expectant smile played on his thin lips. He gave a single, sharp nod. Garrik didn't hesitate. He brought the iron-studded axe down with terrifying force, burying the blade directly into the collector's skull. A sickening crunch echoed through the quiet clearing as bone and brain gave way under the massive weight. Blood sprayed across Garrik's face, warm and metallic. He stood over the corpse, panting heavily, his muscles twitching with leftover adrenaline. The tax collector's body gave one final, involuntary jerk before falling completely still. "Beautifully done, my boy," Silas said, stepping closer to pat Garrik's bloody arm. "A perfect strike. Your strength never ceases to amaze me." Pride swelled in Garrik's chest, momentarily drowning out the grim reality of the slaughter. He wiped the blood from his eyes with the back of his hand, looking down at his savior. "The gold is ours, Silas." "Indeed it is," Silas murmured, turning his gaze toward the covered transport wagon parked on the trail. "But we must leave no witnesses. None at all." Muffled whimpers drifted from beneath the canvas cover of the second wagon. It wasn't the sound of soldiers or guards. They were small, high-pitched cries of terror. Garrik walked over to the wagon, his brow furrowed. He pulled back the heavy canvas flap and froze. Dozens of children huddled inside the dark wooden hold. They were thin, their ribcages visible through their tattered rags. Their hollow eyes stared back at him with absolute dread. They were starving orphans, locked away in cages like cattle. "Silas..." Garrik whispered, his voice cracking. "These are children. They are just kids." "They are liabilities," Silas countered, his voice cold and devoid of any warmth. He walked to the side of the wagon, splashing a flask of highly flammable oil onto the wooden frame. "They have seen our faces. They know our names. If they live, the crown will track us down within the week." "We can release them," Garrik pleaded, his stomach turning a violent knot. "They have nothing. They won't talk." "Do you doubt me, Garrik?" Silas asked, stopping his movements. He turned his silver eyes toward the giant, his expression softening into a look of deep, disappointed hurt. "After everything I have done for you? After I saved you from the very same slow death these wretches face?" Those words struck Garrik like a physical blow. The memory of his own childhood—starving in a freezing alley, his fingers black with frostbite—rushed back with agonizing clarity. Silas had saved him. Silas was his savior, his god. "I don't doubt you," Garrik choked out, his throat tight. "Then prove it," Silas said, tossing a burning torch onto the oil-soaked wood. "Burn the wagon, Garrik. Make sure nothing remains but ash." Screams erupted from inside the wagon as the dry wood caught fire. The flames licked up the sides, turning the canvas into a blazing sheet of orange and yellow. The children beat their frail fists against the locked wooden doors, their cries piercing the damp air. Guilt, heavy and suffocating, pressed down on Garrik's chest. His hands shook as he grabbed a second torch from a nearby bandit. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to tear the wooden doors open, to pull the children to safety. Instead, he forced his legs to move forward. He threw the torch onto the roof of the wagon, watching the flames erupt. He closed his eyes, but he couldn't shut out the horrific shrieks of the dying children. *Silas is always right,* Garrik repeated to himself, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth clicked. *Silas saved me. His word is law. Without him, I am nothing.* He stood there as the heat washed over his scarred skin, his stomach churning with self-loathing. He had committed a monster's deed, but he had done it for the only man who had ever loved him. --- Hours passed before the fire finally died down to a smoldering heap of black wood and bone. The stench of burnt flesh hung heavy in the damp forest air, making the remaining bandits cough and turn away in disgust. Garrik stood in the ruins, his face covered in soot and dried blood. He felt hollow, a shell of a man held together only by his absolute devotion to his leader. "Secure the lockbox," Silas ordered from the path, where he was already sorting through the tax collector's personal satchel. "It should be in the iron chest beneath the carriage seat." Stumbling through the wet ashes, Garrik kicked aside a charred piece of wood that looked disturbingly like a small ribcage. He reached the remains of the lead carriage and pulled the heavy iron lockbox from its hidden compartment. Something stopped him. Instead of the standard royal crest of the King—the golden lion—the seal on the lockbox was entirely different. It was a deeply engraved, intricate symbol of a weeping eye surrounded by six jagged wings. Garrik's breath caught in his throat. He had seen that mark in old, forbidden texts Silas had warned him never to touch. As the smoke clears, Garrik notices the seal on the royal lockbox isn't the king's crest, but the forbidden mark of the Crimson Seraph, the kingdom's most sacred deity.

Chapter 1: Where Blood is Thicker Than Gold