The campfire crackled beneath the iron sky, embers casting fierce shadows across the faces of the war-band. They spoke in awe, voices low, of the mysterious warrior who had saved them all—again. No one had ever seen her without the iron helm. She had felled giants, bested generals, and silenced monsters with a blade like lightning and a will like stone.

They called her Ashenwolf.

Until tonight.

The helm came off with a hiss, and long, dark hair spilled out. Her face, sharp and proud, bore the grime of battle and the calm of command.

Silence.

Then came the laughter. Then came the sneers.

“You’re a woman?” spat Captain Rourke, the same man she had dragged out of a burning siege tower three days ago.

“I knew it was too good to be true,” muttered another.

Ashenwolf stood tall, expression unchanged, though the firelight caught the tightness in her jaw. The sword at her side had slain kings, but tonight, words would be sharper.

And they would cut deep.

Because what they didn’t know—what they had just unleashed—was not just the fury of a warrior scorned.

But of a legend reborn.

And legends don't care who believes in them.