Chapter 1 

Kilkurk

I wake up with a mouthful of dirt and the sun trying to murder me through my eyelids.

This isn't unusual. What's unusual is that I can taste blood mixed in with the red dust, which means I either bit my tongue or someone helped me find this ditch last night. Given the state of my knuckles—scraped raw and crusted with something that could be someone else's blood—I'm guessing it was a little of both.

The ditch runs along the eastern edge of Dust's End, where the town gives up pretending to be civilized. It's my second home these days. Sometimes my first, depending on how the night goes.

I roll onto my back and immediately regret it. The sky is the color of fresh bruises, and my head feels like someone's using my skull for an anvil. There's an empty bottle beside me in the dirt—cheap ale, the kind that burns going down and punishes you twice as hard coming back up.

I sit up slowly and take inventory of the damage. Piss stains on my pants. Vomit on my shirt. Flies buzzing around me like I'm already a corpse.

Perfect. I'm the cautionary tale drunk orcs tell their cubs.

The trudge back to town is a familiar shame parade. Mrs. Henley, who runs the boarding house, is sweeping her porch when I stumble past. She's got the hollow eyes of someone who's found her own share of ditches.

"Rough night, honey?" she calls out. "Been there myself. Hell, was there Tuesday."

A scarred woman loading a wagon gives me a nod. Her hands move careful and quick, like someone who's learned to work while watching the shadows. Diego Cortez tips an imaginary hat from his perch on a fence post, fingers counting coins that aren't there.

That's the thing about Dust's End—nobody judges you for falling down. They just know they'll be right beside you soon enough.

The Red Scorpion squats in the middle of town like a diseased toad, all warped wood and broken promises. The barkeep, Grit, looks up when I fall through the door.

"Christ's sake, Kilkurk. You smell like death warmed over."

"Just the one ale," I manage, sliding onto my usual stool.

"You said that yesterday." But he pours anyway, because my coin is as good as anyone's.

The ale tastes like piss and broken dreams, but it stops my hands from shaking. The first sip burns. The second goes down easier. By the third, I'm remembering why I started drinking in the first place.

The shipwreck comes back in pieces, like it always does. Storm-black water. The sound of wood splintering. My brothers' voices calling out in the dark before the waves swallowed them whole. I floated on a piece of the hull for two days until the tide washed me up on some nameless coast.

I looked for them. 

The truth is, I gave up because it was easier than hoping.

"Kilkurk." Grit's voice cuts through the memory-haze. "You got customers behind you."

I turn and see three men I don't recognize. Dark Market types, by their clothes—leather and steel and the kind of scars you get from knife work.

"That's the big orc," says the one in front, a human with gold teeth and dead eyes. "Heard you used to be someone, greenskin."

The old me would've stood up and shown them exactly what kind of someone he used to be. The new me just turns back to his ale and shrugs.

"You heard wrong."

Gold Teeth steps closer. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, dumb orc."

There it is. The name that cuts deepest because it's not entirely wrong.

"He's not worth the trouble."

The voice comes from behind them. Sheriff Bones fills the doorway—bigger, meaner, and significantly less drunk than me. He's got the kind of reputation that makes smart men reconsider their life choices.

"Sheriff," says Gold Teeth. "We were just having a conversation."

"Conversation's over. Take it somewhere else."

They want to argue, but Bones has a way of making people remember pressing appointments elsewhere. They file out, muttering threats they'll never follow through on.

Bones settles beside me. "You're welcome."

"Didn't ask for help."

"No, but you needed it. Those boys were looking to make their reputation on your bones." He signals Grit for a drink. "Question is, why didn't you fight back? Time was, you would've turned them into paste."

"Time was a lot of things." I drain my ale and signal for another. "Now I'm just a drunk who knows better than to pick fights he can't win."

"Can't win, or won't try?"

I don't answer, because we both know the truth. I've given up on trying.

Bones drinks in silence, then stands. "Word of advice? Whatever hole you're digging for yourself, maybe think about stopping before you hit the other side of the world."

The afternoon crawls by like a dying animal. More drinks. More memories I don't want. By evening, the Red Scorpion fills up with thieves, whores, murderers, and people who just want to forget what they've done. The smoke gets thick, someone palms a card that was meant to stay hidden, and voices rise in the way that means blood is about to spill.

Time to relocate.

Sweety Haven sits at the other end of Dust's End like a jewel in a dunghill. Ruby LaRue is working the bar when I lurch through the door—knows how to smile at broken men without making them feel like charity cases.

"Evening, Kilkurk. The usual?"

"Please."

The ale here costs more, but it goes down smooth. I'm three drinks in when the old swagger surfaces, the way it sometimes does when I'm drunk enough to remember who I used to be.

"There was a time, Ruby," I say, grinning at her, "when I would have fucked not only you but this whole fine establishment."

She raises an eyebrow, amused. "Is that so?"

I turn toward the bar, where Helga is counting coins. Six and a half feet of minotaur muscle wrapped in red silk and bad intentions.

"Even you, big girl," I call out, my grin widening. "I'd have had you screaming."

Helga looks up and snorts with laughter. "In your dreams, drunk orc. You couldn't handle half of what I'd give you."

For a moment, I feel like myself again. Like the warrior who used to make enemies piss themselves and lovers beg for more.

Then the moment passes, and I'm just a broken-down drunk making empty boasts in a whorehouse. The grin fades. I turn back to my ale and try to wash away the taste of what I used to be.

The alcohol hits harder than usual. My vision blurs. Words slur together like broken glass. The room tilts sideways, and I slump forward onto the table.

I hear footsteps, then feel myself being lifted like I weigh nothing at all. Helga's got me over her shoulder, carrying me like a child who fell asleep at the adult table.

"I'll see him to bed, Ruby," she says, her voice fading in and out like a distant echo. "You get some rest. You'll need it. Ten Trigger Thed is booked in for tomorrow."

“Not him again, last time it was twenty and a five of those was up my back passage.” Ruby sighs. 

“It’s the life you choose, Ruby, my sweet. You can always leave; no one is guarding the door.” Helga replies. 

“Suppose. Could be worse.” Ruby says as sink my head into Helga’s lower back and close my mind to the world as she carries me up the stairs.