Chapter 552

Ludger headed north the next morning.

The road out of Lionfang was familiar now, fields he’d shaped, ditches he’d corrected, stones he’d forced into straight lines because he hated tripping hazards more than most people hated taxes. The air grew sharper as he climbed, the land colder rougher, wilder, like civilization was something you had to

hold

instead of something you were allowed to assume.

Normally, if Ludger wanted Kharnek, he wouldn’t come out here. He’d find the chieftain at the guild.

At the bathhouse. At the training yard. Or, most reliably, at a table with a mug in his fist, grinning like a man daring the world to try and keep up. But Kharnek had stopped doing that. Not because he’d suddenly become disciplined. Not because he’d found religion. Because the

fun

had left.

Harold, Cor, Aleia, and Selene were gone now, sent off to manage the reptilians labyrinth. Important work. The kind of assignment you gave to people you trusted to either win or die in a way that didn’t embarrass you.

Harold, especially, had been the critical piece of the puzzle. Kharnek’s best drinking rival. Which was almost insulting, if you thought about it.

Harold always lost. Usually by a large margin. Sometimes by a humiliating margin. He’d drink like a man trying to win a war, and Kharnek would drink like a man taking a casual evening stroll.

And yet Kharnek always welcomed the challenge. Not because Harold ever threatened him. Because Harold tried anyway. Because watching a stubborn human keep coming back for another round was entertaining in a way few things were.

Without Harold there, the guild’s drinking turned into something else, less competition, more… noise. Northerners drinking, recruits trying to prove themselves. Kharnek didn’t bother with that.

So now, if Ludger wanted him, he had to go north. He reached the northerner camp soon. It sat like a controlled invasion on the edge of the wilderness and civilization, people moving with that blunt confidence of those who didn’t ask permission from the land to exist on it.

A couple of sentries spotted him and straightened. One of them grinned.

“Little boss,” the man called, amused. “You finally came to drink?”

Ludger didn’t slow. “No.”

The sentry laughed anyway, like that was the correct answer and the wrong one at the same time.

They let him through without fuss. They always did.

Because even northerners understood the difference between

allowed

and

tolerated.

Ludger’s Seismic Sense brushed the ground out of habit, feet, movement, clustered weight. No alarm. No ambush. Then he spotted the man he’d come for.

Kharnek sat near the main fire, huge shoulders relaxed, a knife in one hand, carving something out of a thick piece of wood. He looked up without surprise, like he’d heard Ludger coming ten minutes ago and just didn’t care.

His eyes flicked briefly to Ludger’s empty hands. No mug. No bottle.

Ludger sat for a moment and watched Kharnek’s hands work.

The chieftain’s carving was rough but deliberate, big fingers, careful cuts. He looked like a man trying to occupy his mind with something small because the larger things were irritating.

Kharnek wasn’t usually this quiet. Which meant something had gone wrong.

Ludger tilted his head slightly. “You look down.”

Kharnek’s knife paused.

For a heartbeat, Ludger thought he might deflect, make a joke, demand alcohol, change the subject the way loud men did when they didn’t want to admit weakness.

Instead, Kharnek let out a slow sigh. Heavy. Genuine.

“My wife,” he rumbled. “She scolds me lately. More than usual.”

Ludger frowned. That was… unusual information.

He hadn’t heard anything about Kharnek’s wife arriving at camp. If a chieftain’s wife showed up, people noticed and rumors spread.

“I didn’t hear she came,” Ludger said.

Kharnek’s expression darkened with the quiet suffering of a man losing a war he hadn’t even realized was being fought.

“You told me she lived separately,” Ludger said.

“She does,” Kharnek replied. “She likes her own place. Quiet. She is shy.”

Ludger didn’t say anything for a second. He didn’t believe that.

Not because shy women couldn’t exist, because Kharnek said it the way a man said “the sky is green” when he didn’t want to argue. Like it was a convenient label that made his life simpler.

Ludger looked at the big man’s slumped posture, the way his eyes kept drifting toward the mug-less space where a drink usually sat, the way his hands kept carving like he needed something to

do

with his frustration.

Shy wasn’t the word. Ludger’s voice stayed even, but his meaning didn’t.

“She dislikes something,” he said.

Kharnek’s jaw worked. He didn’t deny it.

“She says I am…” Kharnek searched for the right word, then growled it like it tasted bad. “Irresponsible.”

Ludger blinked once. That was almost funny. Almost.

He had heard Kharnek describe his wife before, separately, vaguely, always with that half-grin of a man proud that someone still cared enough to be angry at him.

But Ludger had also heard Kharnek describe

himself.

The chieftain’s favorite hobbies were drinking, fighting, and pretending nothing mattered until it did.

Ludger had never bought the “shy” explanation. Not even once.

“I’m pretty sure she just hates your usual behavior,” Ludger said bluntly. “The part where you don’t give a damn about anything except booze.”

Kharnek’s knife stopped again.

He looked at Ludger with something like wounded pride. “I give a damn.”

“Sometimes,” Ludger replied.

Kharnek’s lips pulled into a reluctant grimace. Not agreement. Not denial. Just… recognition that arguing would require too much honesty.

“She says,” Kharnek rumbled, “that if I keep drinking like a fool, my daughter will learn from me.”

Ludger’s eyes narrowed slightly at that.

That

made more sense. Wives didn’t scold chieftains over personal preference. They scolded them over their legacy.

“And she is right,” Ludger said.

Kharnek glared at him for half a second, then sighed again, heavier than before. “Yes.”

Ludger leaned back slightly, watching the fire.

“So,” he said, “you’ve stopped drinking at the guild because Harold left…”

Kharnek grunted.

“…and because your wife is trying to drag you into becoming an adult at age 35,” Ludger finished.

Kharnek’s glare returned, but it was weaker this time.

“You come here to insult me,” he accused.

“I come here because I need you,” Ludger said, flat and honest. Then, after a beat: “And because watching you lose to a woman you can’t argue with is educational.”

Kharnek’s mouth twitched despite himself. For the first time since Ludger arrived, the chieftain looked a little less down. Still annoyed. But less… heavy.

Which meant Ludger could finally talk about what mattered. The north. The labyrinth. The water. And the kind of plan that required a chieftain who could focus without a mug in his hand.

Ludger laid it out the way he laid everything out when he needed someone to understand the shape of a problem.

No drama. No heroic speeches. Just steps.

He told Kharnek about the runic golem labyrinth. About the connection to the other land. About the spring water Aronia had confirmed, magic water that could change Lionfang if they secured a steady supply. About keeping it Lionsguard-only, because information leaked faster than blood. About building a route, training a team, and turning the labyrinth from a sealed threat into a controlled artery.

Kharnek listened. At first. Then his expression flattened into something distant.

When Ludger finished, the chieftain didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the fire, hands resting on his knees, silent long enough that Ludger could hear the crackle of resin in the wood and the low hum of camp life around them.

Finally, Ludger asked, “What do you think?”

Kharnek didn’t even look at him.

“I stopped listening,” he rumbled.

Ludger blinked once. “When?”

“When you said you want northerners crossing a half-drowned labyrinth,” Kharnek replied, as if that single detail had erased the rest of the plan like a bad memory.

He finally turned his head, eyes narrowed, tone offended on principle. “That will not work. Most northerners are terrible swimmers.”

Ludger stared at him for a beat, then sighed the way only someone surrounded by strong people with weak imaginations could sigh.

“They wouldn’t have to swim,” Ludger said.

Kharnek’s brow furrowed. “It is drowned.”

“Drowned doesn’t mean you swim,” Ludger replied. “It means you fight while water tries to kill you.”

Kharnek grunted, unimpressed. “That is worse.”

“Yes,” Ludger agreed immediately. “It is.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, voice calm and precise.

“The best option is draining the water from the flooded sections,” Ludger said. “Turn it into normal corridors. Remove the breath problem. Remove the buoyancy problem. Remove the visibility problem.”

Kharnek’s eyes sharpened. “Then do that.”

Ludger shook his head once. “It would take too long.”

Kharnek opened his mouth to argue.

Ludger continued before he could. “And it would make it easier for Ironhand.”

That landed. Kharnek’s expression shifted, less confusion, more understanding. Northerners didn’t always follow politics, but they understood theft.

“If we drain it,” Ludger said, “any guild with enough manpower can push through after us. Rathen isn’t the problem. His

guild

is. His rivals. His contacts. The moment the route becomes ‘easy,’ it stops being ours.”

Kharnek’s jaw tightened. “So you want hard.”

“I want controlled,” Ludger corrected. “Hard is just the price.”

He lifted a hand and ticked points off with his fingers.

“Draining requires time, and continuous effort. It broadcasts our intent. It invites attention. And while we’re digging and reshaping, the golems are still there, waiting.”

Kharnek’s eyes narrowed. “So your plan is…”

“Our plan is to cross the labyrinth the hard way,” Ludger said. “And yes, fight runic golems underwater.”

Kharnek stared at him like Ludger had just suggested punching the ocean into submission.

“That is stupid,” Kharnek said.

“It’s efficient,” Ludger replied.

“It is suicide,” Kharnek countered.

“It’s training,” Ludger said flatly. “And it’s a route.”

Kharnek’s mouth twisted. “Northerners don’t swim.”

“Good,” Ludger said. “They won’t swim.”

Kharnek blinked. Ludger’s voice stayed even, but his eyes had that sharp focus that meant he’d already run this scenario a dozen times.

“They’ll use runic tools,” Ludger said. “With proper training it is doable..”

Kharnek’s expression remained skeptical, but he was listening again now, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Kharnek grunted. “And the golems?”

“Golems don’t breathe,” Ludger said. “So we don’t try to outlast them. We break them fast. Joints. Cores. Weak points. It shouldn’t be hard for northerners.”

Kharnek’s eyes narrowed. “Underwater. With less force.”

“With Rage Flow,” Ludger replied.

That got Kharnek’s attention properly. His posture shifted slightly, interest cutting through the doubt.

“Rage Flow doesn’t care about water,” Ludger said. “It cares about will. It increases output. It makes your body push harder than it should.”

Kharnek’s lips pulled into a grim, reluctant smile. “It also makes fools.”

“It makes weapons,” Ludger corrected. “If controlled.”

Kharnek snorted. “Controlled northerners. Funny.”

Ludger’s gaze didn’t flinch. “I’m not asking for a hundred of them.”

Kharnek’s smile faded. “How many?”

“A spear team,” Ludger said. “The ones you trust. The ones who can keep their heads when their lungs start screaming.”

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