Chapter 1

Othic

Lord Cia Dareksword is on his knees, weeping. The sound is high and thin in his own opulent study. He’s begging, but not to me. He's begging the empty air, as if Lord Privis himself might magically appear and grant a reprieve.

"I will have the ipia! I swear it! Just one more week!"

He’s a fool. Privis doesn't do reprieves. He sends me.

I stand in the doorway, my axe heavy on my shoulder. The air is permeated with his terror and the cloying, sweet smell of rirzed blossoms. My job is simple. Clean this up.

I take one heavy step into the room. Dareksword’s head snaps toward me, his eyes wide with a fresh, bladder-loosening terror. He scrambles backward on his knees, hands slipping in his own piss. "No... please, monster... please..."

I am not a monster. I am a tool. I am The Tusk. I am an Iron Tusk warrior, and I will at least grant him a swift end. I draw my axe. The shing of the heavy steel in the quiet room is deafening.

I don't let him finish his plea. My stroke is fast and clean. The sound is a heavy, wet thunk as the steel bites through bone and gristle. His head topples from his shoulders and rolls, stopping near a shattered vase. The body slumps, a fountain of hot, dark elf blood spraying across the pristine white marble.

I hear a cheer from the hall. "The Tusk's done! He's done! It's ours, lads!"

I wipe my axe on Dareksword's silk tunic. I feel nothing. I turn and walk from the room as the rest of the mercenary crew floods in, their hands already itching for treasure.

I move from the study, stepping over the threshold into the chaos of the main hall. My job is done. The execution is finished; the looting is just... aftermath.

The sound of splintering wood echoes from the floor above as the mercenaries kick in bedroom doors. I hear a fresh wave of high-pitched screaming—female servants, dragged from their hiding places. One of the men laughs, a wet, ugly sound. It is not my concern.

I stand guard by the main door, my axe resting on my shoulder, its blade still dripping. I am a wall. A gray-green mountain of indifference. 

This is the price, I tell myself. The thought is dull, familiar. This is the price of my food and shelter. This is the world now.

A mercenary, his arms full of silver candelabras, stumbles past me, hissing, "Watch it, Tusk."

I don't move. I don't even look at him. I just stare out into the night, feeling nothing. I force nothingness. It is a shield, thicker than any steel. Here, I am just a tool.

The smell of smoke begins to thicken, acrid and sharp. They're burning the tapestries now. Pointless. The wastefulness of it all is the only thing that briefly sparks my anger.

Then, they bring the women down. Five of them. Human and elf, their thin nightgowns torn, hands bound. They are weeping, a chorus of pathetic, broken sounds. The mercenaries shove them roughly toward the door, herding them like taura to the slaughter.

This is what I am, the thought whispers, cold and sharp. I am the butcher's dog, guarding the door to the slaughterhouse.

I watch them pass, their terrified eyes skittering over my massive, bloody form, and I feel... nothing. I am a stone.

The smoke is thick, tasting of burning silk and old, dry wood. It stings my eyes, but I don't blink. I just stand by the shattered main door, a silent gray-green statue, watching the mercenaries haul their prizes into the courtyard.

One of them, a human named Jax, shoves a bound, weeping servant girl toward the wagon. "Move, you bitch!" He laughs as she stumbles and falls to her knees in the mud.

I look away, my gaze settling on the burning roof of the estate. The flames lick at the night sky, bright and hungry. This is what I am now. A beast for coin.

I feel the heavy leather pouch of ipia pressed against my side—my payment for the execution. It's warm from my own body heat. But the ipia is good, I tell myself, the familiar justification settling in. The words are a dull, practiced rhythm in my skull. The food is plentiful. The shelter is dry. Privis provides... I glance at the crying girl being shoved into the wagon. ...women.

The thought feels wrong, hollow, but I force it. I am a beast. This is what beasts crave. Food. Shelter. Mates. This is all there is. What else could an orc ask for?

My hand clenches, the leather of my axe haft groaning. The answer is a bitter, iron taste in my throat.

A clan.

Honor.

A purpose.

I crush the thought before it can take root. Purpose is a luxury for orcs who aren't lost. Honor is a word for warriors who haven't sold their axe to a worm like Privis. I am a survivor. I am The Tusk. And I have been fed.

I turn from the doorway, my job done. I walk toward the wagons, my boots heavy in the mud, each step a confirmation of my new, hollow life. The mercenaries make way for me, their fear a small, satisfying spark in the cold void of my gut. It is not respect, but it is all I have left.

Pride. 

It’s a bitter, iron taste rising from my throat. Gruk would die before he lived like this. He would spit on this ipia, on this unearned shelter. He would look at me, his loyal brother, and see nothing but a beast for hire, a butcher’s dog wallowing in Privis’s filth.

I look at my reflection in a shattered, gilt-edged mirror hanging crooked on the wall. My face is spattered with Dareksword’s blood. I don’t see a warrior. I see a thing.

I have nothing. The realization is a hard,  cold stone in my gut. The food, the coin, the women—it’s all a lie. A cage. The rage needs an outlet, a target. It needs to hurt something.

A sound breaks my thoughts. A pathetic, broken sob.

A male servant—a human boy, thin as a rail, his face streaked with tears and soot—scrambles out from under a heavy tapestry. He must have been hiding when the crew swept the hall. He sees me, his eyes going wide with a terror that eclipses everything else. He tries to flee, scuttling on his hands and knees toward a side door.

He's weak. He's pathetic. He is everything I despise in myself right now.

The displaced rage is too much. It boils over, hot and black. He stumbles as he passes me, his hand brushing my boot as he begs. "Mercy... please..."

"Quiet!" I roar. The sound is a raw, guttural explosion of my own self-loathing.

I don’t even use my blade. I swing my axe in a flat, brutal arc, smashing the heavy haft into the side of his skull. The sound is a wet, sickening crunch. His body spasms once, then goes limp, his head hitting the marble at an unnatural angle.

The mercenaries by the wagon, hearing the sound, let out a ragged cheer. "Got another one, Tusk!"

I don't answer. I just stare at the crumpled body. The rage doesn't fade. I just feel colder.

The heat from the burning mansion is pressing against my back like a giant, hot hand. It roars into the night, sending a column of orange sparks and black smoke toward the stars. The smell of it—burning silk, old wood, and cooked meat—clogs my throat.

I stand by the main gate, watching the last of the mercenaries load the stolen treasure onto the heavy wagons. My work is done. Dareksword is dead. His servants are dead or captured.

A rough voice barks from the lead wagon. "Dumb ass Tusk! Let's go! Privis wants his new toys before dawn!"

I turn, my boots sucking in the deep, bloody mud. I walk to the last wagon, the one filled with the captured, weeping women. I grab the tailgate and haul my massive frame up, my weight making the entire cart groan on its axles.

I sit with my back to them, facing the burning estate. The rumble of the wagon wheels vibrates through my bones, a familiar, grinding lurch. The smell in the cart is thick—straw, sweat, and the sharp, sour stench of their terror.

A small sound, a tiny whimper, makes me turn.

One of the captured human women is staring at me. She’s huddled against the wooden slats, her eyes wide and glassy with shock, her face pale in the firelight. She isn't crying, not anymore. She just looks... empty. She sees me, the monster covered in her master's blood, and a flicker of something crosses her face. A question.

"I am dead?" she whispers, her voice a dry, reedy sound.

I look at her, at her torn servant's dress and the rope burns already forming on her wrists. I feel nothing. This is the world. This is the wage I've earned. This is the grim, cold reality of what I am.

"After they fuck you, yes," I say, my voice a flat, dead rumble.

I turn back around to watch the mansion burn, the monster’s work is done.