I make my decision quickly, but not rashly. Intelligence about the Death Knights' activities could prove crucial, and with three powerful lieutenants at my side, the risk seems manageable.

  "We're going to Skull Peak," I announce to my commanders that evening. "Not the full army—a small, elite force that can move quickly and quietly."

  "Is that wise, master?" Nerk asks, his evolved form towering impressively as he studies the crude map one of the hagravens has drawn of the mountain. "Death Knights are dangerous opponents, especially in numbers."

  "Which is precisely why we need to understand what they're after," I counter. "This 'shard of the fallen star' connects to the same star metal that forms Gorthal's axe. There's a pattern here we need to comprehend."

  Gorthal nods, the ritual scars across his body pulsing with anticipation. "Knowledge of enemy's objective critical to defeating them. Or using same power ourselves."

  Morrigan looks less convinced. "Death Knights killed entire hagraven coven already. Not opponents to underestimate."

  "We won't," I assure her. "This is reconnaissance, not confrontation. We observe, gather intelligence, and withdraw. Combat only if absolutely necessary."

  By morning, our expedition is prepared. I've selected a force optimized for speed and stealth: myself, my three lieutenants, twenty of Nerk's best goblin scouts, and ten of Gorthal's elite orc warriors. The three hagraven representatives will guide us to Skull Peak, where the rest of their coven awaits our arrival.

  We leave the bulk of our growing army under the command of trusted sub-lieutenants—Nerk's goblin captain Skritt and Gorthal's senior blood-warrior Thokk. With clear instructions to maintain defenses and continue training, but avoid any aggressive actions until our return.

  The journey to Skull Peak takes two days of hard travel through increasingly rugged mountain terrain. As we ascend, the vegetation thins, replaced by wind-carved rock formations and occasional patches of hardy mountain scrub. The air grows noticeably colder, thinner, carrying strange scents I can't identify.

  "Close now," one of the hagraven guides announces as we crest a ridge on the morning of the third day. "Skull Peak ahead."

  The mountain looms before us, its summit indeed resembling a massive, weathered skull when viewed from this angle—eye-like cave openings, a protruding ridge like a nose bone, jagged rocks forming what could be teeth. Whether natural formation or ancient construction is impossible to tell.

  "Undead established camp here," Morrigan indicates a plateau about halfway up the mountain. "Dozens of skeleton champions and lesser undead, plus human servants. Conducting systematic search of cave network."

  Through my bond with my three lieutenants, I sense their varying reactions to our proximity to the enemy—Gorthal's eager anticipation, Nerk's tactical assessment, Morrigan's nervous tension.

  "We approach from western face," one of the hagraven guides suggests. "Less patrolled. Secret paths known only to coven."

  The climb is treacherous. Narrow goat trails wind along sheer cliff faces, occasionally disappearing entirely and forcing us to scramble across bare rock. Our goblin scouts move with impressive agility, while the heavier orcs struggle on the more precarious sections. Morrigan and the other hagravens have a significant advantage, using their wings to navigate the worst parts.

  By mid-afternoon, we've reached a vantage point overlooking the Death Knight encampment. Concealed behind a rocky outcropping, I observe their operation with growing concern.

  The plateau has been transformed into a military camp with disturbing efficiency. Black tents arranged in precise rows, strange mechanical devices I don't recognize positioned at regular intervals, human workers moving with the jerky precision of those under magical compulsion along with zombies and skeletons. Patrolling among them, the skeletal champions, tall figures in ancient armor exuding deathly power. And in the center of it all, a group of Death Knights in black armor that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it, frost forming on the ground around them.

  "Searching methodically," Nerk observes, his enhanced vision picking out details my human eyes miss. "Teams enter different cave openings, emerge hours later, mark locations on central map."

  Gorthal studies the knights with intense focus, his ritual scars pulsing subtly. "Armor similar to axe material. Same dark energy signature. Related somehow."

  "The ancient chamber they seek is below," one of the hagraven guides whispers. "Deep beneath mountain. Three entrances, all hidden by old magic. Undead have found two already, but main entrance remains concealed."

  "Where?" I ask.

  The hagraven points to a seemingly ordinary section of the mountain face just above the plateau. "There. Entrance revealed only by blood sacrifice under three moons."

  Convenient, I think wryly. "When's the next three-moon alignment?"

  "Tonight," Morrigan answers. "Rare occurrence. Happens once per season."

  That explains the Death Knights' urgency—they're racing against a celestial clock.

  "We need to see this chamber before they do," I decide. "Can you perform the ritual to reveal the entrance?"

  The hagravens exchange nervous glances. "Possible," the eldest admits. "But would alert Undead to our presence. Magic impossible to hide at such proximity."

  "Then we need a distraction," I turn to Nerk. "Your scouts could create diversions on the far side of the mountain. Draw attention away long enough for us to enter the revealed chamber."

  The goblin king nods thoughtfully. "Coordinated strikes at sunset. Multiple locations to split response. Could work."

  "Once inside, how long to reach this shard?" I ask the hagravens.

  "Central chamber deep within mountain. Perhaps hour of travel through tunnels, if path clear."

  I weigh our options carefully. This is significantly more dangerous than mere observation, but the opportunity to discover what drives the Death Knights—what connects them to the star metal—is too valuable to ignore.

  "We proceed after sunset," I announce. "Nerk, prepare your scouts for the diversion. Gorthal, select your three best warriors to accompany us. The rest remain here as rear guard. Morrigan and the hagravens will perform the ritual and guide us inside."

  As darkness falls, we move into position. The three moons rise—the large white one, and the smaller blue and amber satellites—their combined light casting eerie, overlapping shadows across the rocky terrain. From our concealed position, we watch as the Death Knights increase their patrols, clearly aware of the significance of this night.

  When the moons align in a perfect triangular formation, Nerk gives the signal. On the far side of the mountain, multiple explosions erupt—alchemical devices prepared by our goblin scouts, designed to create maximum noise and visual distraction without causing significant damage.

  The reaction is immediate. Most of the Death Knights mobilize toward the disturbance, moving with that unnaturally fluid grace that makes them so disturbing to watch. A few remain to guard the camp, but their attention is focused outward, away from the mountain face behind them.

  "Now," I whisper to Morrigan and the hagravens.

  The ritual is both simple and disturbing. Each hagraven slices her palm with a ceremonial dagger, allowing blood to drip onto a specific point on the rock face. As they chant in a language that makes my skin crawl, the blood doesn't fall but hovers, forming complex patterns in the air before sinking into the seemingly solid stone.

  For a moment, nothing happens. Then, with a sound like a distant sigh, a seam appears in the rock—widening slowly to reveal a tunnel leading into darkness. No dust, no debris, as if the opening has always been there, merely hidden by some optical illusion.

  "Quickly," Morrigan urges. "Passage will remain open until moons separate."

  Our small infiltration team slips inside—myself, my three lieutenants, and three of Gorthal's elite orc warriors. The rest remain outside, the goblin scouts continuing their diversion, the hagravens concealing themselves to await our return.

  The tunnel beyond the entrance is unlike anything I expected. Not a rough cave but a constructed passageway, its walls smooth and covered in intricate carvings that glow faintly with an inner light. The symbols are unlike any language I've seen, flowing patterns that seem to shift subtly when viewed from different angles.

  "Old magic," Morrigan whispers reverently. "From before humans. Before most beings who walk now."

  The passage descends at a gentle angle, turning occasionally but maintaining a consistent downward trajectory. The air grows warmer rather than colder, carrying a metallic tang that reminds me of lightning strikes.

  After twenty minutes of careful progress, the passage opens into a larger chamber. Here, the architecture becomes even more impressive—massive pillars carved with the same flowing symbols, a ceiling so high it's lost in shadows, the floor a mosaic of what appears to be star charts created from thousands of tiny luminescent stones.

  "This predates any civilization I know of," I murmur, awed despite myself.

  "Path continues there," one of the hagravens points to an archway on the far side of the chamber.

  As we cross the vast room, the sense of ancient power grows stronger. Through my bonds, I feel my lieutenants' reactions—Morrigan's reverent fascination, Gorthal's hungry curiosity, Nerk's wary respect.

  Two more chambers and connecting passages follow, each more elaborate than the last. The carvings become more narrative in nature—depicting what appear to be celestial events, objects falling from the sky, beings of strange proportion interacting with the land itself.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "Creation story," Morrigan suggests, studying one particularly complex frieze. "Or invasion record. Hard to tell."

  Finally, the passage widens into what can only be the central chamber. The scale is breathtaking—a perfect dome perhaps a hundred feet in diameter, the walls covered entirely in the luminous carvings, which here pulse with rhythmic light like a heartbeat.

  At the center stands a raised dais, and upon it, a pedestal of what appears to be the same black metal as Gorthal's axe. Atop this pedestal hovers—not rests, but actually floats a few inches above the surface—a jagged shard of crystalline material about the size of my forearm. It's both transparent and opaque somehow, containing what looks like a galaxy of tiny stars swirling within its depths.

  "The shard of the fallen star," Morrigan breathes.

  As we approach cautiously, the shard pulses more intensely, as if responding to our presence. I notice Gorthal's axe reacting as well, the black metal blade glowing with subdued crimson energy even without a blood ritual to activate it.

  "They're connected," I observe. "The axe and this shard—same material or origin."

  Gorthal nods, ritual scars pulsing in time with the shard's illumination. "Feel the resonance. Power recognizing power."

  "Can we take it?" I ask the hagravens.

  "Dangerous," one cautions. "Shard bound to mountain by old magic. Removing might have... consequences."

  Before I can decide our next move, Nerk stiffens, his enhanced senses detecting something beyond our awareness.

  "Not alone," he warns, voice dropping to a whisper. "Something approaches through the passages. Multiple somethings."

  "Undead?" I ask.

  "Yes. And one Death Knight."

  The others must be busy chasing our goblin distraction. But even one may prove too much if it slows us down enough for its friends to come back.

  Morrigan's feathers bristle with alarm. "We must hide. Now."

  There's no time for debate. We retreat to the shadows behind the massive pillars that ring the chamber, concealing ourselves as best we can. Moments later, an army of undead swarm into the chamber, and in the center of their formation, a Death Knight. Its black armor seeming to devour the luminous light of the carvings.

  The Death Knight approaches the pedestal, studying the floating shard with an attention I can feel even through its expressionless helmet. When it speaks, the voice reverberates through the chamber like ice cracking.

  "The fragment, at last. Prepare the containment vessel."

  One of the skeletal champions steps forward, producing an ornate box made of the same black metal as their armor and Gorthal's axe. The interior glows with runes that hurt my eyes to look at directly.

  I feel Gorthal tense beside me, his ritual scars pulsing faster as the Death Knight reaches for the shard. Through our bond, I sense his recognition—not of the being itself, but of the power it channels.

  The moment the Death Knight's hand touches the shard, the entire chamber shudders. The luminous carvings flare blindingly bright, then dim dramatically. The shard resists briefly, then detaches from whatever force held it suspended with a sound like glass breaking at extreme distance.

  As the Death Knight places the shard into the containment vessel, Gorthal's axe begins to vibrate violently against his back, its energy signature suddenly impossible to conceal. The blood-priest clamps one hand over it, trying to suppress its reaction, but too late.

  The Death Knight's helmet turns in our direction with mechanical precision.

  "We are not alone," it announces, voice like a frozen grave. "Find them."

  There's no point in hiding further. We emerge from concealment, my three lieutenants positioning themselves protectively around me.

  The Death Knight studies us with unsettling stillness. "A tamer," it observes. "With bonded monsters. Interesting."

  "What is that shard?" I demand, figuring direct confrontation is our only option now. "Why do you want it?"

  A sound emerges from the Death Knight's helmet—something that might be laughter if filtered through a glacier. "Curiosity before death. Admirable."

  It gestures to its undead servants, skeletal champions in ornate armor, each commanding a unit of lesser undead warriors. The high-tier undead spread out to surround us, their weapons gleaming with unnatural light, while dozens of lesser undead shuffle into blocking positions near the exits.

  "The shard is not your concern," the Death Knight continues. "It belongs to the Master, as do all fragments of the Worldbreaker."

  "Worldbreaker?" I press, trying to gain any information that might help us escape this situation.

  The Death Knight tilts its helmet slightly. "The star that fell. The weapon that will remake all realms when reassembled." It takes a step closer, the black metal of its armor seeming to absorb the chamber's light. "Your beast carries a piece of it on its back. I will reclaim that as well before you die."

  Gorthal snarls, the axe now pulsing violently with crimson energy. "Try to take it, dead thing."

  I assess our options quickly. One Death Knight plus multiple skeletal champions and lesser undead against our small group. Theres too many. Direct confrontation seems suicidal, especially once more of them come back, but surrender is obviously not an option.

  "Morrigan," I whisper through our bond, "can you teleport us out?"

  "Not all," comes her strained reply. "Chamber blocks most magic. Perhaps three of us, no more."

  Not a complete solution, then. We need a distraction, something to—

  My planning is interrupted as Gorthal makes the decision for us. With a roar of defiance, the blood-priest draws Blackjaw's axe and slices both palms deeply against its edge. The weapon drinks his blood eagerly, flaring with blinding crimson energy that momentarily illuminates the entire chamber.

  "BLOOD AND SHADOW!" he bellows, our army's battle cry echoing off the ancient walls.

  The orcs respond instantly, charging the nearest skeletal champions with coordinated precision. Nerk and Morrigan react a heartbeat later—the goblin king launching himself at another undead commander while Morrigan unleashes a spell that fills the chamber with disorienting mist.

  The battle erupts with chaotic violence. The skeletal champions move with unnatural speed and strength, their ancient weapons cleaving through armor and flesh with equal ease. One orc falls immediately, nearly bisected by a single stroke. But our enhanced fighters are far from helpless—Nerk lands a devastating blow that actually shatters a skeletal champion's ribcage, while Gorthal's blood-empowered axe meets another's blade with a shower of unnatural sparks.

  I back away from the melee, seeking higher ground on the chamber's edge from which to coordinate. Through our bonds, I channel energy to my lieutenants, enhancing their already formidable abilities. Morrigan's mist thickens, taking on properties that seem to slow the undead's movements. Nerk's strikes gain additional force, his natural armor deflecting a blow that should have removed his arm. Gorthal becomes a whirlwind of crimson energy, the axe leaving trails of blood-light as it arcs through the air.

  Lesser undead pour into the chamber from adjoining corridors, their withered forms individually weak but dangerous in such numbers. They swarm toward me, recognizing me as the controlling influence behind my monsters, but several of our orcs form a protective wall, hacking down the shambling corpses with brutal efficiency.

  The Death Knight observes the chaotic battle for several moments, as if assessing the threat we pose. Then it steps forward, drawing a massive sword from beneath its cloak—a blade of the same black metal as the containment vessel but inlaid with what appear to be fragments of crystalline material similar to the shard.

  "Enough," it intones, and slams the sword's pommel against the floor.

  A wave of necrotic energy erupts outward, causing several lesser undead to explode into fragments as the power passes through them, uncaring of which side they serve. Two more orcs drop to their knees, their life force visibly draining away as the death magic seeks living targets.

  "Take the tamer," the Death Knight commands its servants. "Kill the rest."

  Gorthal, blood streaming from self-inflicted wounds that power his magic, locks blades with a skeletal champion while shouting to me, "The pedestal! Activate it!"

  I don't understand his meaning until I notice the black metal pedestal that held the shard is reacting to the energy released in the chamber, pulsing with the same rhythm as Gorthal's axe, small arcs of power crackling across its surface.

  Acting on instinct, I dash toward it, ducking under a skeletal warrior's blade. The pedestal grows more active as I approach, as if sensing my intent. When I place my hand upon it, the connection is immediate and overwhelming, a surge of information flooding my mind in fragments too quick to process.

  The Worldbreaker. An instrument from beyond stars. Shattered to prevent catastrophe. Fragments scattered, some forged into tools of power. The black metal, its housing, its physical form. The crystal shards, its essence, its power source.

  As this knowledge crashes through my consciousness, the pedestal releases a pulse of energy that expands outward in a perfect sphere. The Death Knight and its undead servants are thrown backward, momentarily stunned by the unexpected blast.

  "NOW!" I shout to my lieutenants. "Retreat!"

  Morrigan seizes the opportunity, casting whatever teleportation magic she can muster in this restrictive environment. A swirling portal opens behind us—unstable, flickering, but present.

  "Go!" she screeches, physically shoving me toward it.

  Nerk grabs our surviving orc warrior while Gorthal continues to hold off the recovering undead, his blood magic creating a temporary barrier. One by one, we dive through the portal—first the orc, then Nerk, myself, and Morrigan.

  Gorthal is last, the axe clutched in both hands as he backs toward our escape route. The Death Knight rises, necrotic energy swirling around it like a dark aura.

  "The fragment," it demands, extending a gauntleted hand. "Surrender it, and your death will be painless."

  "Blood and shadow," Gorthal snarls in response, then hurls himself backward into the portal just as it collapses.

  The sensation of teleportation is like being torn apart and reassembled—painful, disorienting, and mercifully brief. We crash into existence on a mountainside far below the peak, tumbling across rocky ground before coming to rest in a heap of limbs and weapons.

  "Everyone alive?" I gasp, struggling to my feet.

  A chorus of groans answers me. Morrigan looks drained, her feathers disheveled, magical energy visibly depleted by the powerful spell. Nerk is bleeding from several wounds, though his enhanced physiology is already working to close them. The surviving orc warrior lies unconscious but breathing.

  Gorthal rises last, the axe still clutched in his hands, glowing faintly. Blood continues to flow from his ritual wounds, but he seems energized rather than weakened by the loss.

  "We need to move," he urges. "Death Knight will track magic. Will follow soon."

  "Our escorts?" I ask, looking around for the hagravens and goblin scouts who awaited our return.

  "There," Nerk points to a outcropping where several figures wave to signal their position. "Most survived. Undead focused pursuit on chamber entrance when diversion ended."

  Through our bonds, I direct a strategic withdrawal—gathering our scattered forces and retreating down the mountain as quickly as possible. The Death Knight will undoubtedly pursue once it regroups, but we have a head start and knowledge of the terrain thanks to our hagraven guides.

  As we descend, Gorthal falls into step beside me, the axe now strapped across his back but still pulsing with subdued energy.

  "You felt it," he says. Not a question but a statement. "The connection. The knowledge."

  "Yes," I admit. "The Worldbreaker. Some kind of weapon or artifact, shattered into fragments."

  "More than weapon," Gorthal's ritual scars pulse in time with the axe. "Tool of creation. And destruction. Older than gods."

  "And the Death Knight and its undead are collecting the fragments," I realize. "That shard, and others like it."

  "For what purpose, question remains." The blood-priest studies me with newfound intensity. "But fragment responded to you. Significant."

  I consider this as we continue our rapid descent. The brief connection with the pedestal revealed fragments of knowledge that I'm still processing—images of a catastrophic impact, of beings wielding powers beyond comprehension, of a deliberate shattering to prevent some greater disaster.

  And now a Death Knight and its undead servants seek to reassemble what was deliberately broken apart. For what purpose? What master do they serve?

  Questions for another time. For now, our priority is escaping the mountain and returning to our stronghold with the intelligence we've gathered. The encounter has made one thing abundantly clear, the Death Knight represents a far greater threat than we initially believed, with resources and powers beyond our current capability to confront directly.

  But we've survived our first direct encounter, gained valuable knowledge, and proven that even these formidable enemies are not invincible.

  As the Monster Lord, I've just discovered a much larger game being played across this world. And whether I like it or not, my growing army has become a piece on that cosmic board.