We had what we needed.
Rhazan.
A warrior built like a fortress, wielding a glaive that could cleave men in half, a veteran of countless battles. A true Skarnhaal champion.
A formidable opponent.
But so was I.
And if I couldn't defeat him—if I couldn't claim his head—then I wasn't worthy of the King's ring.
That was all there was to it.
I was about to speak when Astrid cut in again, her voice steady but curious.
"Is Rhazan the strongest Skarnhaal in history?"
I glanced at her. Not a bad question. I had been wondering the same.
Varik shook his head.
"No." His voice carried no hesitation. "We are a strong race by human standards. Even our regular soldiers could take ten of yours. But Rhazan? He is far from the strongest in our history."
Astrid tapped her fingers lightly against the wooden table.
"That means the Skarnhaal have always been strong, right? Since the very beginning?"
Varik nodded. "Strength has always been in our blood. It is not something we gain. It is something we are."
Astrid leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.
"Then how come all of you are here, trapped underground?"
She tilted her head.
"What happened?"
"Fear is a powerful weapon, my young lady," Varik said, his voice quieter now.
He stood, moving toward a shelf lined with old scrolls and bound scripts. His fingers traced over the spines before settling on one.
Slowly, he pulled it free.
"We only fled underground thirty years ago."
He returned to the table, carefully unrolling the aged parchment.
"Because we were hunted."
His eyes lifted to meet mine.
"By one man."
Then, he turned the parchment around, revealing what lay inside.
A painting.
Not perfectly detailed, but clear enough.
A bounty poster, Skarnhaal script scrawled across the edges, the ink faded with time. But in the center—
A man.
His hair dark, swept back, tied at the nape. A jawline harsh, sharp, lips pressed into a grim, knowing smirk. His eyes—cold, piercing, calculating.
Even in paint, the expression was the same as the one buried deep in my earliest memories.
I knew this face.
Not from whispers. Not from legends.
From childhood.
My blood went cold.
Because at the bottom of the poster, beneath the Skarnhaal script, was one line written in a language I understood.
Viktor Voller.
My father.
Varik traced a finger over the parchment, his eyes distant.
"I still remember the terror he brought upon our entire race," he said, voice steady but heavy. "Only one man, but capable of killing so many of us that we had no other choice but to retreat beneath the earth."
Astrid squinted at the painting, her brows furrowing slightly as if trying to recognize the face.
But after a moment, she exhaled, giving up.
"So, who's this one man?" she asked.
I said nothing.
Kept silent.
Varik answered for me.
"Viktor Voller."
The name felt heavy in the air, like it carried the weight of years of suffering.
"A name that might not be well-known on the surface," Varik continued, "but here, he is our Grim Reaper."
His fingers pressed slightly against the parchment, the ink worn from age and touch.
"Our elders say that at first, he killed us as a business. He was paid to do it. But then—his hatred grew."
He exhaled, shaking his head.
"He began killing us not for money. Not for war. Just because he hated us."
Astrid's gaze sharpened slightly. "Why?"
Varik let out a slow breath.
"We never knew."
He tapped the page.
"All we know is that we feared him."
I stared at the poster, the inked lines forming the face I barely remembered.
Viktor Voller.
My father.
I had no clue about this story.
No idea about what he had done, what he had become.
All I had ever known was that my parents died in a war.
That was it.
But now, sitting in this forgotten archive, in the heart of an empire forced underground, surrounded by the remnants of my father's actions—
I realized the truth.
My father wasn't just a soldier.
My father was the reason an entire race was forced underground.
"But that was in the past," Varik said, rolling the parchment again with careful hands before tucking it back into the corner of the room.
He exhaled. "We are recovering now. Our numbers are still dwindled, yes, but we are rebuilding. That is why the King has been considering a different path for our future."
He met my gaze.
"But it is not my place to speak for him. You should see him yourself."
He reached beneath the table, his movements steady, deliberate, before pulling out another scribe.
He set it down between us.
"Take this."
I glanced at it—a thick scroll, bound with dark twine.
"It carries my permission. With this, you may go to the King immediately."
Astrid stepped forward, taking the scribe from his hands with a small nod.
"Thank you, Varik."
He gave her a slow, approving nod in return.
But something still nagged at me.
I folded my arms, watching him carefully.
"Why are you helping us?" I asked. "We're here to kill one of your own."
Varik chuckled, a quiet, knowing sound.
"A good question."
He leaned back slightly, eyes studying me for a long moment before speaking.
"The King has been troubled about the future. He has two options before him."
His fingers tapped softly against the table.
"Let's just say that I am heavily invested in the second one. And if all goes well for you—he will realize, as I have, that we have no chance of resurfacing again."
A slow, quiet sigh.
"We must look elsewhere."
Silence settled over the room for a moment before Astrid finally turned to leave.
I followed, setting down my empty cup, preparing to step outside—
But before I could, Varik's hand shot out, gripping my wrist.
Not forceful.
But firm.
I glanced back at him, brows furrowing.
Astrid had already stepped beyond the doorway.
We were alone.
Varik's grip on my wrist tightened just slightly, his old, calloused fingers pressing into my skin.
Then, in a voice low and deliberate, he said—
"Never mention your last name to anyone here."
His gaze flickered toward the doorway where Astrid had stepped out, then back to me.
"Not even to her."
There was no anger in his tone. No resentment.
Just a warning.
"Keep it a secret, and you will live."
His fingers finally released me, his expression unreadable.
"That is… if you can defeat Rhazan."
A cold weight settled in my stomach.
Because I realized then—
He knew.
Varik knew exactly who I was.
Knew that he had just sat across from, spoken to, and helped the son of the man who nearly erased his entire race.
And yet—he had given me his trust.
Or maybe, he had simply given me a chance.
I swallowed, nodding once.
"Thank you, Varik."
Then, without another word, I stepped outside.