1
THOKTAR
Istumble through the forest, Dark Elf poison burning through my veins like liquid fire. Blood from the sword wound in my side drips a trail any fool could follow, but I can't stop the flow. My massive hands shake as I press torn fabric against the gash, feeling warm life seep between my fingers. The trees blur into shadows, shadows into enemies lurking behind every trunk.
My vision wavers. Is that a Dark Elf scout or just another fucking oak? I've survived the shipwreck that claimed my clan brothers, survived months alone on this hostile continent of Rach, but these bastards might finally finish what the sea started. The poison spreads with each heartbeat, turning my blood to molten metal, my muscles to rotting meat.
I've been running for three days now. Three days since their patrol found my camp by the river. Three days since their cursed blade opened my side and their sorcerer's dart found my shoulder. The wound throbs with every step, but the poison—that's what's killing me. Dark Elf toxins are designed for one purpose: to weaken prey without killing it outright. A dead orc brings no profit at the slave markets.
My foot catches on a root and I crash to my knees, bark scraping against my palms. The forest spins around me like a child's top. I drag myself upright, gripping a tree trunk with both hands until the world stops tilting. Can't rest. Can't stop. They're still out there, following my blood trail like hounds following a wounded deer.
The irony tastes bitter as old ale. I'm Thoktar of the Iron Tusk clan, second-in-command to my brother Gruk. I've killed men with my bare hands, crushed Dark Elf skulls beneath my boot heels, led raids that made enemy villages weep. Now I'm stumbling through unknown woods like a green recruit, brought low by poison and treachery.
But even dying, even half-mad with toxins, I won't give them the satisfaction of an easy capture. I've seen what happens to orcs in their slave pits. Seen strong warriors reduced to broken animals, fighting for scraps in arena sand. Death is mercy compared to their chains.
Through the haze of fever and pain, something cuts through the darkness ahead. A structure. Wooden walls, a slanted roof. My heart pounds against my ribs as I force my legs to carry me forward. It's a barn—old, weathered, but solid. The smell of hay and animals drifts on the night air, promising shelter I haven't known in weeks.
The barn emerges from the darkness like a gift from the ancestors. Old wood, hay smell, blessed shelter. I collapse inside, my massive frame shaking the structure as I hit the floor. This is where I'll die—alone, far from clan and kin. But I'd rather have this shit-soaked freedom than be chained by the Dark Elves—a captured orc is worth good money in the dark markets. They'll be looking for me, just as they'll be looking for my Tusk Clan brothers.
My axe clatters beside me as I roll onto my back, staring up at wooden beams that swim in and out of focus. The poison hasreached my heart now. I can feel it spreading through my chest like ice water, slowing my pulse, clouding my thoughts. But I'm here. I'm free. That's something, at least.
Pain drags me into memories I've tried to forget. My brothers' faces as our ship went down in Dark Elf fire. Gruk's roar of defiance as the waves claimed him. Mogor's desperate eyes as the current tore him away. Turk reaching for me with blood streaming down his face. The cold water claiming us one by one like a hungry beast.
I failed them all. Failed as second-in-command, failed as brother. When the Dark Elves attacked our vessel with their cursed fire magic, I should have found a way to save them. Should have kept the clan together. Instead, I watched my brothers disappear beneath black waves while I clung to driftwood like a coward.
The guilt eats at my insides worse than any poison. Gruk trusted me to help lead our people to safety, and I let them all drown. Seven brothers scattered to the winds or claimed by the sea. I'm the only one who knows they might still be alive, the only one searching. And now I'll die in this barn without finding a single one of them.
The poison spreads and my breathing grows shallow. Maybe death is mercy I don't deserve. Maybe this is justice for my failures. The Dark Elves won't get their prize, but my brothers will never know I tried to find them. They'll die thinking their clan-brother abandoned them.
My vision darkens around the edges. The barn walls seem to press closer, like a tomb closing around me. I can hear my own heartbeat slowing, feel the cold creeping up from my toes. This is it, then. This is how the legend of Thoktar ends—bleeding out in a stranger's barn, forgotten and alone.
But something in me refuses to surrender. Deep in my chest, beneath the poison and pain, something roars in defiance. IronTusk clan doesn't die whimpering in barns. We die on our feet with weapons in our hands, roaring challenges at our enemies. If these are my final moments, I'll face them as a warrior should.
I grip my axe handle with numb fingers, trying to stay conscious. The familiar weight of the weapon grounds me, reminds me who I am beneath the fever and despair. I am Thoktar. I am Iron Tusk. I have stood in the shield wall and felt enemy blood spray across my face. I have loved and fought and bled for my clan.
Every heartbeat might be my last, but I'll make each one count. The ancestors are watching. My brothers—living or dead—are watching. I won't shame them with a coward's death.
The darkness closes in like a tide, but I fight it with the last of my strength. My grip on the axe tightens. My jaw sets in stubborn defiance. If Death wants Thoktar of the Iron Tusk, he'll have to pry me from this world with both hands.
Let the Dark Elves come. Let the poison burn through my veins. Let the world itself try to claim me. I am orc. I am Iron Tusk. And I am not finished yet.
The barn spins one last time before consciousness abandons me, but my hand never loosens on my weapon. Even in the depths of poison-sleep, I remain ready to fight.
2
FORLA
Iapproach the old barn with fresh hay, humming an old tune Talia taught me years ago. The melody drifts on the morning air, mixing with birdsong and the distant lowing of cattle. My bare feet find the familiar path through dewy grass, each step a small celebration of freedom I never take for granted.
Three years since my rescue from the slave markets, and I still marvel that I can walk anywhere without chains. The weight that once circled my ankles is gone, but the memory of iron remains sharp as winter frost. Simple tasks like feeding the animals feel like gifts—precious moments of choice in a life I thought would never be my own again.
The morning air smells of rain and new growth, of possibilities stretching toward the horizon. I breathe it deep, filling my lungs with liberty. Talia says I still do that—breathe like someone who remembers what it means to suffocate. She's not wrong. Every breath tastes sweeter when you've known the stale air of slave quarters.
My arms strain slightly under the hay's weight, but it's good strain. Honest work for people who love me. Talia and Brom found me broken and bleeding at a crossroads slave auction,paid my price without question, then gave me something beyond freedom—they gave me family. Home. Purpose beyond surviving until the next beating.
The barn sits where it always has, weathered gray wood silvered by morning light. It's older than the farmhouse, older than most of the trees surrounding it. Brom says it was here when his grandfather first claimed this land, built to last by men who understood that some things must endure.
But something's wrong. The heavy door hangs askew on its iron hinges, gap-toothed and crooked. My heart hammers against my ribs as warning bells chime in my mind. We secured that door last night—I remember Brom checking the latch twice, muttering about wolves getting bolder as winter approaches.
