Chapter 1

Gruk

The morning mist clings to the treeline as I patrol our borders, but something moves wrong in the shadows. My skin prickles with unease—the same warning that kept me alive during my grimtha years.

I move silently through the undergrowth, checking the sanctuary Eve and I carved from this wilderness. Every dawn I walk these boundaries, looking for signs that the violent world has found us.

Twenty paces ahead, beside a fallen log, I see it carved deep in the mud.

Dark elf tracks. Military boots. Fresh.

"Shit," I mutter, dropping to examine the print. The crossed-blade pattern marks it as a warrior's boot, and beside it lurks a second set of prints.

My hands curl into fists. They were here. In my forest. Near my home.

Following the trail, I find more signs—broken branches, disturbed leaves, boot impressions in moss. The tracks lead to a rocky outcropping overlooking our valley, and my blood runs cold at what they could see from here.

Everything. Our house, garden, barn, workshop. All visible. All vulnerable.

Scrape marks on a flat stone show where someone knelt for a long time, studying our home. At least four elves, maybe more. A scouting party.

Not yet an attack, but soon.

When I return to the homestead, Eve waits on the porch with tea and knowing eyes.

"How bad?" she asks, holding out the cup.

"Bad enough." I accept the warmth, needing her steadying presence. "Dark elves. At least four, scouting us from the ridge."

Her face pales, but her voice stays steady. "How long ago?"

"Hours. Maybe less." I scan our perimeter again, old instincts screaming. "They know where we are now."

"What do they want?" But even as she asks, we both know the answer.

"Same thing they always want. To destroy anything good in this world." I drain the tea, the familiar bitter taste grounding me. "Or they're looking for you specifically."

She flinches at that. We both remember the Dark Market, the auction block, the things they did to her before I found her.

"We can't run," she says quietly. "This is our home."

"No. We can't." I study her face, seeing the survivor's steel beneath her gentle exterior. "But we need to be ready."

"Ready for what?"

"War."

The day passes in tense preparation. Eve gathers supplies while I check our weapons and defenses. She moves with efficient purpose, her own survivor's instincts awakened.

"The root cellar's stocked for two weeks," she reports, carrying preserved meat from the smokehouse. "Longer if we're careful."

"Good." I test my bowstring's tension. "They'll probably try to starve us out first."

"Or burn us out." She pauses in her work. "Gruk, what if there are too many?"

"Then we make them pay dearly for what they take."

She nods, accepting this. It's one of the things I love about her—no tears, no hysteria, just practical planning for survival.

"The eastern ridge has good sight lines," I continue. "If we have to fall back—"

"We won't." Her voice carries quiet steel. "I won't run from them again."

That stops me cold. The woman I rescued from slavery, who I've tried to shield from violence, is ready to fight.

"Eve—"

"No." She meets my eyes. "I know you want to protect me, but I'm not the broken girl you saved. I won't cower while they destroy what we built."

Pride and fear war in my chest. Pride that she's found her strength, fear of losing her to the darkness that's coming.

"Then we prepare together," I say finally.

That evening, she finds me sharpening my war axe by the fire.

"I remember that sound," she says softly, settling beside me. "From the old days."

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

"You used to sharpen your weapons every night when we first built this place," she continues. "Until you finally believed we were safe."

"We were never safe." The blade gleams in the firelight. "I just got soft."

"You got happy." Her hand covers mine, stilling the whetstone. "There's a difference."

I look at her—really look. The woman who learned to trust again after what they did to her. Who helped me build something worth defending.

"I won't let them take this from us," I promise.

"I know." She kisses my cheek, her lips warm against my scarred skin. "But don't lose yourself in the steel, Gruk. I need the man I fell in love with to come back when this is over."

I test the axe edge against my thumb. A thin line of blood wells up.

"What if that man isn't hard enough to keep you alive?"

"Then we'll find out together." She stands, heading toward our bedroom. "But right now, I need you to hold me. Before you become the grimtha again."

I set aside the axe and follow her, knowing she's right. Tomorrow I'll embrace the steel, the violence, the cold fury that once made dark elves whisper my name in fear.

Tonight, I'll hold the woman who taught me there was more to life than revenge.

But as I wrap my arms around her warm body, I can't shake the feeling that our peaceful days are numbered. The tracks in the mud were a message, a promise of violence to come.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

Even in sleep, I hear the sound of steel on stone, calling me back to war.