Chapter 1 

Turk

My stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead, which is saying something since I'm pretty sure I smell like one myself.

Three days wandering the wilderness of Rach will do that to a fellow. Three days of berries that taste like disappointment and stream water that's probably giving me gut rot. The gash across my ribs has stopped bleeding, but it's got that hot, tight feeling that means it's not healing right. My left shoulder throbs where the dark elf blade found its mark, a constant reminder of why trying to help people usually ends with me bleeding in a ditch somewhere.

But that's me—Turk the Helpful. Can't see someone in trouble without sticking my oversized nose where it doesn't belong.

The human refugees were grateful enough when I fought off their dark elf captors. Tears streaming down their faces, blessing me in three different languages, promising they'd never forget my kindness. All very touching, right up until I realized I was bleeding from five different wounds and had no idea where I was.

Gratitude's a fine thing, but it doesn't heal sword cuts or point you toward the nearest tavern.

My brothers would have a good laugh at my expense if they could see me now. Gruk especially—he's been telling me for years that my helpful nature would get me killed one day. "You'd offer to help a snake shed its skin if it asked nicely," he'd say, usually while patching up whatever damage my latest act of charity had earned me.

The path ahead winds through a grove of ancient trees, their branches twisted into shapes that look almost deliberate, like someone taught them to write in a language I can't read. Moss hangs from them in great green curtains, and the air smells of decay and old magic.

That's when I catch the other smell. Death, yes, but not the clean death of battle or accident. This is something slower, more deliberate. Something that took its time.

I round a bend in the path and stop dead.

The minotaur lies sprawled beside a fallen log like a discarded puppet. My first thought is that he must have been magnificent once—minotaurs always are. Eight feet of muscle and bone and bovine fury, the kind of creature that makes smart people cross to the other side of the street.

But this one... this one looks like he's been wrung out and left to dry.

His ribs show through patchy brown fur, each bone clearly defined under skin that hangs loose as an empty wineskin. His massive arms, which should be thick as tree trunks, have withered to match his legs. Even his head seems too large for his neck now, that great horned skull swaying slightly with each labored breath.

He's still alive. Barely.

"Easy there, brother," I call out, approaching slowly. Wounded animals—even intelligent ones—can be unpredictable. "Looks like you've had some trouble."

His eyes find mine with tremendous effort, and what I see there makes my gut clench. It's not just pain or sickness. It's something deeper. Something that looks almost like shame.

"Don't," he whispers, his voice like gravel sliding down a steep slope. "Don't go there."

I kneel beside him, automatically checking for obvious wounds. No blood, no broken bones that I can see. But there are strange marks on his arms and chest—patches where the fur has fallen out completely, leaving skin that looks somehow faded, like fabric left too long in the sun.

"What happened to you?" I ask gently. "Bandits? Disease?"

He tries to shake his head but lacks the strength. "Arc's Smithy," he manages. "The village... past the barrier. Don't set foot there, stranger. Don't make my mistake."

Arc's Smithy. The name has a pleasant ring to it, like somewhere a fellow might get his axe sharpened and enjoy a hot meal while he waits. "What's wrong with the village? Plague?"

"Worse." His breathing is getting shallower, but his eyes burn with desperate urgency. 

“Worse?” I ask.

“It’s endless, constant pounding…I can’t bear it!” the Minotaur says. 

“Pounding I can handle, my friend, but hunger I can not. Tell me, is there shelter there for a stranger?”

“Yes, but.” 

“And food?”

“Yes, but.”

“So many…too many” 

But his eyes are already losing focus, his chest rises once more, then goes still.

I sit back on my heels, studying the corpse in the growing silence. Whatever killed this massive creature did it slowly, methodically. Like something had been feeding on him bit by bit, taking just enough each time to keep him alive and coming back for more.

The smart thing would be to turn around right now. Find another path, another village, another way to fill my belly and tend my wounds. 

But my stomach chooses that moment to let out another rumble that echoes through the trees, and I wince at the sharp pain from my ribs. I need food, clean water, and proper bandages. 

Whatever happened to this poor bastard, it was probably his own fault somehow. Maybe he got involved with the wrong crowd, or ate something he shouldn't have, or caught some local disease that doesn't affect orcs.

"Arc's Smithy," I say aloud, testing how the name feels on my tongue. Pleasant enough. Sounds like the kind of place where a traveling orc might find honest work and fair treatment.

I say a brief prayer over the minotaur's body—to the War God for his passage to whatever comes next, to the Harvest Goddess for peace in his final moments. Then I continue down the path, trying not to think about the haunted look in his eyes or the way he'd said 'grateful' like it was the most terrible word in any language.

The warning follows me like a persistent fly, buzzing around the edges of my thoughts as I walk. But warnings from dying strangers are a copper for a dozen on the road. Half the time they're delirious from pain or fever. The other half, they're trying to keep you away from some treasure they've hidden nearby.

Besides, I'm not some fresh-faced farm boy wandering into his first adventure. I'm Turk of the Iron Tusk clan, veteran of a dozen campaigns and survivor of more tavern brawls than I care to count. If some village wants to try taking advantage of me, they're welcome to attempt it.

My confidence wavers slightly as the path climbs through increasingly dense forest. The trees here are old, older than anything has a right to be, and their branches interweave overhead in patterns that block out most of the sky. More than once I catch myself glancing over my shoulder, though I couldn't say what I expect to see following me.

It's past midday when I finally spot it through the gloom—a distortion in the air ahead, like heat waves rising from sun-baked stone. It stretches between two massive standing stones that must be ancient beyond reckoning, their surfaces covered in symbols that hurt to look at directly.

A magical barrier of some kind. And beyond it...

I step closer, squinting through the shimmering distortion. Buildings. Actual civilization, with proper roofs and chimneys sending up wisps of smoke into the afternoon air. The sight makes my chest tight with something that might be homesickness.

The barrier doesn't feel threatening as I approach. If anything, it radiates a sense of peace so profound it makes my battle-worn bones ache with longing. My wounds actually seem to hurt less just standing near it.

I pause at the threshold, one foot raised to step through. The minotaur's warning echoes in my mind: Don't set foot there.

But on the other side lies warmth, shelter, food, and healing. Everything I need to continue my search for my scattered brothers.

"Sorry, friend," I murmur to the dead minotaur somewhere behind me. "But a fellow has to eat."

And I step through into Arc's Smithy.