"Ready?" Forla asks, shouldering her pack.
"More than ready."
We step outside into morning air that tastes of salt and betrayal. The village below looks innocent enough in the daylight—just another fishing settlement going about its daily business. But I know what lies beneath now, what twisted appetites drive these pale-eyed monsters.
We make it perhaps fifty yards down the path before Anchor's voice calls out behind us.
"Leaving so soon?"
I turn to see him approaching with that same warm smile, but now it looks predatory instead of charming. He's no longer bothering to hide what he is—a perverted artist who sees people as subjects for his twisted work.
"The morning light is particularly good today," he continues conversationally. "I was hoping to capture some studies of post-coital behavior. The way you moved together last night was absolutely magnificent. Pure animal passion."
My hand moves to my sword hilt, rage building like pressure in a forge. "You sick bastard?—"
"Sick? My dear orc, I'm an artist! You should be flattered—your rutting technique is quite impressive for such a brutish species. The way you mounted her, the sounds she made..." He grins wider.
The red haze of fury descends completely. I draw my sword, taking a step toward the grinning bastard who turned our love into a spectacle for monsters.
"Thoktar," Forla's voice cuts through my rage, sharp with warning. "Look."
I follow her gaze and see them—dozens of Fisher People emerging from the village, moving with that fluid coordination. They carry fishing spears, gutting knives, nets weighted with lead. Their pale eyes gleam with silent hunger, and their needle teeth are bared. But they make no sound, just advance with the patient inevitability of a rising tide.
"Time to go," Forla says urgently, grabbing my arm. "NOW."
The sight of that silent, threatening mob breaks through my battle-fury. This isn't a fight we can win—it's a trap closing around us like one of their nets. I sheathe my sword and grab Forla's hand.
We run.
Behind us, Anchor's laughter echoes off the stone walls. "Come back anytime! I have so many more artistic ideas to explore!"
The village edge looms ahead—weathered stone giving way to scrubland and the promise of escape. With each step, Penmorvah's wrongness seems to ease slightly, like walking out from under a suffocating blanket. The Fisher People don't pursue beyond the village boundaries, just watch with those pale, hungry eyes as we flee their domain.
The crossbow bolt takes me in the shoulder, spinning me around and sending me crashing to the rocky ground. Pain explodes through my body, but training kicks in faster than agony. I roll, coming up in a fighting crouch despite the quarrel jutting from my flesh.
Bounty Hunters. A dozen of them emerging from concealment among the rocks, crossbows raised and wipes crackling on the ground.
"Thoktar the Gladiator," he calls. "You're worth a lot of gold, orc. Alive, preferably, but dead will do if necessary."
This has nothing to do with the Fisher People. This is about the arena, about our escape from Gospar's games. They've been tracking us, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
"Run," I snarl to Forla, drawing my sword despite the bolt in my shoulder. "Get to the forest."
"I'm not leaving you?—"
"GO!"
Steel rings against steel as the first Bounty Hunter reaches me. I parry his strike, riposte with a cut that opens his throat, but there are too many. More bolts whistle through the air, and I feel the burn of sleep magic as their darts find their mark.
My legs go numb first, then my sword arm. The world starts to gray around the edges as whatever poison they're using courses through my system. I see Forla reaching for her knife,ready to fight beside me, and summon my last reserves of strength.
"LIVE!" I roar at her, putting every ounce of command I possess into the word. "Live and find me!"
She meets my eyes for one desperate moment, and I see her understand. This isn't a battle we can win. This is sacrifice—me buying her time to escape, to survive, to perhaps find a way to come for me later.
She turns and runs toward the hills as my knees buckle. The Bounty Hunters let her go—I am the prize they want and they know it will take all their combined strength to take me.
Darkness closes in as they bind my wrists with chains that burn with their own malevolent magic. The last thing I see before consciousness abandons me completely is Forla's figure disappearing into the scrubland, alive and free.
