Chapter 283: The Fall of Harrowhold

Dross was not taking any chances. Not meeting the Leader of Harrowhold would hurt him more than losing both of his eyes would. It would hurt him so much, he was so close to victory. To a major victory.

Perhaps one of his greatest victories. Perhaps the greatest. Because here, he had taken a big risk. He had fought. He had actually fought, he had come onto the battlefield and fought, risking his life.

Of recent, the invasions he commanded, he normally didn’t go into the battlefield and fight himself.

He felt that he was getting old and was at the risk of dying more. The years were catching up to him, his body no longer as quick as it used to be, his reflexes slower, his endurance weaker. He had started to delegate the fighting to his younger warriors, to lead from the back, to let others take the risks while he reaped the rewards.

But here, he had risked it all. He had stood on the front lines, his axe in his hand, his warriors at his side. He had felt the heat of battle, the thrill of combat, the fear of death.

He had fought alongside his men, had bled with them, had watched them fall. And now, he was so close to victory that he could taste it.

The leader of Harrowhold was just ahead, trapped in his own palace. All Dross had to do was reach him, to look him in the eye, to see the fear and despair on his face.

That moment would be worth more than any treasure, more than any land. It would be the culmination of everything he had worked for, everything he had sacrificed.

He would not let that moment slip away. Not now. Not when he was so close. He would see the leader of Harrowhold, and he would make him pay for every life that had been lost.

The warriors moved silently, their horses’ hooves muffled by the soft earth. They reached the outer wall of the palace, a high fence made of wooden spikes. It was a formidable barrier, but not impenetrable. Dross gave the signal, and his warriors dismounted, moving quickly to scale the fence.

They flew over the fence, their bodies landing softly on the other side. The guards stationed at the rear entrance were caught off guard, their eyes widening with shock as the Vrethka warriors descended upon them.

They tried to raise their weapons, to shout a warning, but it was too late. The Vrethka warriors cut them down in moments, their blades flashing in the dim light.

The carnage was swift and brutal. Dross had given the order: kill every single guard. He even ordered the killing of servants who crossed their path. It was a harsh decision, but a necessary one. They could not afford to leave any witnesses, could not afford to let anyone escape and warn the chief.

The warriors moved through the palace like ghosts, their footsteps silent, their weapons ready. They killed every guard they encountered, their bodies falling to the ground without a sound. The servants who saw them were cut down as well, their screams quickly silenced.

Dross and his warriors stormed into the palace. The doors were thrown open, the guards inside scrambling to defend themselves. But they were too slow, too unprepared. The Vrethka warriors moved with so much brutal efficiency, cutting through them like sunlight cuts into the day.

The chief of Harrowhold was in his chambers when he heard the commotion. He was an old man, fat and slow, his body weakened by years of indulgence.

He had sent his son to fight the war, believing that youth and vigor would be enough to secure victory. But now, he was alone, surrounded by enemies, and there was no one to protect him.

He tried to run, his legs moving as fast as they could carry him. But he was too slow, too old. He stumbled through the corridors, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He tried to find a way out, a path to safety, but everywhere he turned, he met the cold eyes of the Vrethka warriors.

Dross smiled as he saw the old chief. He walked toward him, his steps slow and deliberate. The chief tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go.

"Hey, Chief of Harrowhold," Dross said, his voice cold and mocking. "I’m War Chief Dross, leader of Vrethka."

The old chief’s face went pale, his eyes wide with terror. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Dross gestured toward Marrick, who was being dragged into the room by two Vrethka warriors. "I believe you know my friend here. He’s been telling me all about you. And I have to say, I’m not impressed."

The chief’s eyes widened as he saw his son, bound and helpless. "Marrick!" he cried out. "What have you done to him?"

Dross laughed, a cold, harsh sound. "Don’t worry, old man. He’s still alive. For now. But whether he stays alive depends entirely on you."

The chief’s face twisted with rage and fear. "You monster! What do you want?"

Dross was stunned by that question. This was just pure stupidity. Calling Dross a monster when he, the chief of Harrowhold, was the one who started the war. Who invaded and killed so many of his people.

Who was the monster? The chief had sent his armies into Vrethka’s lands without provocation, had burned villages, slaughtered innocents, and destroyed families.

He had started this conflict, had pushed Vrethka to the brink of destruction, and now he had the audacity to stand there, his face twisted with righteous anger, and call Dross a monster?

And now he was asking, "What do you want?" Like seriously?! The chief had everything he deserved coming to him, and he was acting like the victim? As if he had done nothing wrong, as if he was the one being wronged? It was absurd, laughable even. Dross could barely contain his contempt.

"What do I want?" Dross repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You destroyed my lands. You killed my people. You tried to take everything from me. And now you want to know what I want?" He stepped closer, his eyes blazing with fury. "I want what you tried to take from me. I want your land, your resources, your people. I want everything you have. And I want you to watch as I take it all away. Everything you have, it’s mine now."

The chief’s face fell, the last of his hope crumbling. He knew that he was beaten, that there was no escape, that his fate was sealed.

Dross smiled, a cold, cruel smile. "But don’t worry, old man. I’m not going to kill you. Not yet. I’m going to take you back to Vrethka, and I’m going to make you suffer. I’m going to make you watch as everything you’ve built is destroyed. I’m going to make you wish you had never been born."

The chief’s face went pale, his body trembling with fear. He knew that his fate was sealed, that there was no escape.

Dross turned to his warriors. "Take them both. We’re going back to Vrethka."

The warriors moved quickly, binding the old chief’s hands and feet and securing him to a horse. Marrick was already bound, his face pale and trembling.

Caef stepped closer to Dross. Without a word, Dross pulled him into a brief, firm embrace , the kind that said more than any speech could. When he pulled back, his eyes were burning with something new.

"I feel alive again," Dross said, his voice rough. "I feel like I could tear down mountains. Percvale is next. And when we’re done with them, there won’t be enough left for the crows."

The Vrethka warriors mounted their horses, their prisoners secured. They rode out of Harrowhold, leaving the village in ruins.