4:47AM.
The Corinthian Hall was never meant to hold warriors at this hour. But Nathaniel Carter had opened his sanctuary to them, and Alrik Solheim was grateful for it, grateful too for the human form that let him move through the space without destroying its elegance.
He stood at the center of the Grand Hall, watching his team prepare. Three centuries of fighting together made preparation a ritual, each movement precise and practiced. In their human shapes, they could almost pass for mortal mercenaries. Almost.
Brynjar the Siege-Breaker checked his warhammer for the third time, running thick fingers across runes that pulsed with defensive magic. In human form, he stood six-foot-four, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with sandy hair pulled back in a warrior’s knot. Scars covered his forearms like a topographic map of battles won, and the tattoos marking his skin were Old Norse war prayers layered with modern warding glyphs. He caught Alrik’s eye and grinned, teeth just slightly too sharp to be fully human.
“Ten down, seven to go, King. Maybe today we get lucky.”
“Lucky would mean no one tries to kill us,” Astrid Ironhide muttered without looking up from her dual axes. In human guise, she stood nearly six feet tall, muscular and lean, with platinum blonde hair shaved close on one side. Her visible skin was covered in protective runes so densely layered they formed intricate patterns like armor beneath her tactical gear. Female trolls were rare enough that even in human form, her presence commanded respect. Her axes were named Mercy and Justice, though she rarely showed either. “When has that ever happened?”
Kolgrim Runeward barely looked up from the circle he was inscribing on the floor, lean frame bent over his work with scholarly focus. In human form, he appeared almost academic: five-eleven, wiry build, dark hair falling into intelligent grey eyes. His fingers moved with precision as he worked, runestones rattling in their leather pouch at his belt. For a troll, even disguised, he carried himself like a scholar first and warrior second. “Never. The answer is never. Which is why I’m triple-warding everything.”
A voice squeaked from near Alrik’s boots. “Oh great, the pessimist troll is triple-warding. That’s totally reassuring.”
Zix. The imp crouched beside Kolgrim’s circle, jagged ears twitching with nervous energy. Loki had sent him as their guide, calling in favors with the imp resistance network. Small even for his kind, Zix barely reached Alrik’s knee, his grey skin marked with territorial tattoos that declared allegiance to no demon lord. He talked fast, moved faster, and had already teleported six times since arriving just to burn off anxiety.
“You get used to him,” Astrid said, catching Alrik’s expression.
“No you don’t,” Brynjar added cheerfully.
Bramble materialized from the shadows like a ghost in priest’s robes, ancient texts clutched against his chest. The old scholar looked exhausted, eyes bloodshot from too many nights decoding Codex fragments. But his voice was steady when he spoke. “Coordinates are confirmed. New Hampshire site first, then Maine. I’ve prepared cipher keys for both locations.”
He spread maps across the table, pointing to marks that glowed faintly with residual magic. “Nine fragments already secured. Eight physical pieces locked in the Temple vault, one absorbed by Larissa during the Hartford operation. These two sites represent fragments ten and eleven. If you succeed, we’ll control nearly two-thirds of the total.”
Alrik studied the maps, his human form carefully controlled. In this shape, he stood just over six feet, compact and controlled, with close-cropped dark hair silvered at the temples. His eyes were the only feature that fully betrayed his nature: too old, too knowing, carrying the weight of centuries in their amber depths. Nine secured. Eight operations across three weeks. Every faction knew they were winning the race now. The Guild. The Crimson Fold. Orcus’s forces. Even the Broker Council watched their movements with growing concern.
“They’ll get desperate,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.
Nathaniel Carter appeared at the hall’s entrance, storm-grey eyes already assessing their readiness. The Grand Master of the East Coast Wizard Order moved like controlled lightning, power barely contained beneath human form. Alrik had fought beside him before. Knew his strength and his limits. “Fragments aren’t just script,” Nathaniel said without preamble. “They’re reactive. They test those who seek them. The New Hampshire site has been dormant for decades, but that doesn’t mean it’s harmless.”
“And Maine?” Astrid asked.
“Active within the last seventy-two hours. Someone else knows about it. Whether they’ve reached it yet, I can’t say.”
Brynjar cracked his knuckles, the sound just slightly too sharp. “Good. I prefer complicated.”
The portal opened behind Nathaniel, reality tearing like fabric to reveal swirling silver light. The wizard’s work, precise and powerful. He’d anchored this gate to the New Hampshire coordinates, creating a stable crossing that would let them bypass mortal geography entirely.
“Alrik.” Nathaniel’s voice stopped him at the threshold. “Be careful. These fragments have been hidden for reasons. Some of those reasons involve creatures that don’t die easily.”
“Neither do trolls,” Alrik said.
“That’s what concerns me. Things that challenge trolls aren’t things I want waking up.”
Zix muttered something in imp-cant that translated roughly to “Oh, this is gonna suck” as they stepped through the portal together.
The silver light swallowed them whole.
Cold.
The first thing Alrik registered was temperature, dropping fast enough to frost his breath in seconds. They’d materialized in an ice cavern that stretched beyond sight, walls of black stone covered in centuries of accumulated frost. Blue-white light emanated from the ice itself, casting everything in ghostly illumination.
“Welcome to New Hampshire’s ass-end of nowhere,” Zix announced, his voice echoing off crystal formations. “Population: us and whatever’s waiting deeper in.”
The shift happened without words. Battle required their true forms, and the cold cavern held no humans to frighten. Alrik felt his bones expand, his frame growing as the human disguise dissolved like morning mist. He rose to his full height: twelve feet of ancient warrior carved from living stone. His skin darkened to storm-grey granite, muscles corded like iron cables beneath. Tusks curved up from his lower jaw, battle-worn and deadly. His hands became massive, each finger thick as a man’s wrist, capable of crushing steel. The amber glow in his eyes intensified, casting faint light in the frozen darkness.
Around him, his team transformed.
Brynjar’s human frame exploded outward, muscle mass doubling as he reached fourteen feet of pure destructive potential. His skin turned slate-grey, covered in the same runic scars that marked his human form, but now each one blazed with visible power. His warhammer, proportionate to his human size, now looked almost manageable in hands that could palm a boulder. His tusks were chipped and scarred from three centuries of combat, each mark a story of survival. When he grinned, it was terrifying.
Astrid’s transformation was controlled violence. She grew to thirteen feet, all lean muscle and deadly grace. Her skin became iron-grey stone, the protective runes covering her body now glowing with golden light so intense they formed a second skin beneath her tactical gear. Her platinum hair remained, but now framed a face that made demons reconsider their life choices. Her tusks were shorter than the males’, sharper, designed for close combat where precision mattered more than intimidation. She hefted her axes, and even in hands twice their previous size, they looked eager for blood.
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