Haakon Bloodreaver wanted every warband in the Gorran Wasteland to kneel under one banner. But two of the strongest hated each other more than they feared him. He stood between their fires now, and both sides gripped their axes. The red runes on his skin burned as he raised his hands. To his left waited Ragnar Bloodmark's riders, mounted on a great tusked beast that pawed the ash. To his right crouched Krag Bloodfang, the wolf-beastman, teeth bared, his hackles up. Their tribes had spilled each other's blood for three winters. Haakon needed both. He could not have both while they lived to feud. "You called us to one camp," Krag snarled. His claws flexed. "So we could finish it here." Ragnar spat into the fire. "Give the word, Bloodreaver. My beast will grind his pack into the dirt." Beside Haakon, the shaman Hilde Bloodrune stepped forward. Red runes marked her small frame. Her spear trailed flame across the ash. She looked at Haakon, not the warlords. "Kill one, and you lose half your strength before your first true war," she said. "Bind them instead." Haakon understood. He drew his blade and cut his own palm. Blood ran down his fingers. "The feud ends tonight," he said. "But not with your deaths. With mine, if I fail you." He held the wound high. "Whoever breaks this peace answers to Khorne through me. I will take his skull myself." Krag's growl faltered. Karn Bloodpaw, a younger beastman at Krag's side, glanced between his chief and the bleeding warlord. He lowered his spear first. That single gesture cracked the wall of hate. Gorthak Ironhorn, the bearded raider who scouted for Ragnar, laughed loud and hard. "He bleeds for us before we bleed for him. I have never seen a chief do that." He struck his chest. "I will not be the one to break it." Hilde pressed her flaming spear into the ash between the two fires. She dragged a single line, joining them. "One fire now," she said. "One banner." Ragnar climbed down from his beast. He crossed the line and gripped Krag's forearm. The wolf-beastman held still, then squeezed back. The camp roared. Haakon's plan held. Both warbands stood under him now, sealed by his blood. The feud was dead. But a bound peace is not a healed one. As the two tribes drank together, Haakon saw Krag's eyes track Ragnar across the flames. Old hate does not die in one night. It waits. Haakon had welded two blades into one weapon, and that weapon could still turn in his grip. Word of what he did would travel. Every scattered chief in the wasteland would hear that Haakon Bloodreaver bound enemies with his own blood. Some would come to join. Others would come to test whether the young warlord's peace could break.

The two warbands drank under one banner now, but their camp was a sprawl of tents on open ash. Haakon Bloodreaver walked its edge at dawn and saw the truth. A chief with no walls was a chief who could be left behind. When he spoke, men listened only as long as he stood before them. He needed a seat that stayed when he was gone. Hilde Bloodrune found him staring across the wasteland. She planted her spear in the dirt. "They obey your blood oath," she said. "But a warband follows a place too. Give them a hall, and your word outlives the fire." Haakon knew the place already. A day's march east stood a fortress of black stone, crowned with jagged ramparts and pyramids of skulls. A dead champion's keep, abandoned since his fall. "Then we take it," Haakon said. But the keep was not empty. Torgar The Fallen held it. He was a champion in red and gold plate, an axe as long as a man across his back. Haakon had heard the name. Torgar had killed three chiefs who came to bend the knee. He answered the march with laughter from the gate. "You bind enemies with your own blood," Torgar called down. "I heard. Bleed for me, boy, and I might let you live as my dog." Haakon did not answer with words. He climbed the black steps alone. Behind him, Durgan Skulltaker moved to follow, his massive arms bare, runes red on his skin. Haakon raised one hand. "Mine," he said. Durgan stopped and grinned, teeth wide. Torgar swung first. The great axe tore a chunk from the stone where Haakon had stood. Haakon rolled beneath it and drove his blade into the gap behind Torgar's knee. The champion roared. He backhanded Haakon into the gate. Ribs cracked. Haakon spat blood and stood. Torgar lifted the axe for the killing blow. Haakon stepped inside the swing, too close for the long weapon. He rammed his blade up under the champion's jaw. Torgar shook, dropped his axe, and fell. Haakon set his boot on the dead champion's chest and cut the head free. He held it high over the ramparts. The warbands below did not cheer at once. They watched. Then Hrothgar Bloodmark, a horned rider with a braided beard, struck his axe against his shield. Durgan joined him. The whole host followed until the black stone shook. Haakon carried the skull inside and set it at the foot of the bone throne in the keep's heart. He sat. The seat was his now, and the walls were his, and every chief in the wasteland would know where to find him. But a hall draws eyes. That night Hilde stood at his side and read the sky. "You have a throne," she said. "Now the ones who feared to face a wandering warlord will come for the one who sits still."