The pain was no longer a sensation. It had engulfed his entire existence, a dull nagging, constantly nibbling away at whatever scraps of self he still possessed.

  Knez woke to the sound of his own heartbeats, a rhythmic pounding in his ear. His whole body felt like a sea of fire; the thirty lashes from Grak’s whip had reached a state of clotted stagnation. So he stayed still, motionless.

  To move was to expend energy he did not have. Instead, he lay on the ground quietly, staring upward at the sky. He could barely distinguish dreams from reality. How long had he been unconscious? Days, weeks, or perhaps hours?.

  He took a good look at the wounds all over his body, or at least as much as he could see without moving too much. From his observations, they had settled quite a bit—festering dead tissue that spoke of time passed. Everything was unclear; his vision and thoughts flickered like a dying torch.

  He tried to sit up, pushing himself off the ground, but his body wouldn't listen. The world tilted violently as he collapsed sideways into the dirt. Cheek pressed to the cool earth, he remained there in that position. He found no strength to try sitting again, and could see no reason, either. His eyelids drifted closed on their own.

  The trees and vegetation thinned out as a group of orcs made their way forward. Before them spanned a vast mountain range, chain after chain of peaks marching east until they dissolved into hazy foothills in the distance. To the west, the base of the mountain met the Yellow River, which served as the border between the kingdom of Skarvan and her neighbor Garth.

  The rivers stretched from the base of the Tavan mountain range into the heart of Eldura continent. Deep and wide enough to accommodate small warships, both kingdoms patrolled the rivers constantly. To cross on foot or swim across was akin to suicide; hence, a path through the mountains was the only safe path for an orc tribe. Herg led the group further towards the hidden paths, carved by orc tribes over decades.

  Back in the camp, inside a low tent, thick with the scent of crushed feverroot and sweet myrrh, Knez startled awake.

  Smoke hung in thin, lazy veils above him. He lay on a thick pile of furs that still carried the faint musk of whatever beast they’d come from. Beside him a few inches away a tiny figure curled on the same huge makeshift bed.

  He narrowed his brows. She looked familiar, but his blurry vision couldn't make out her shape or face at first. Then, slowly and painfully, it sharpened.

  A child. Human. The same little girl.

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  She looked even smaller up close. Six, or maybe seven seasons old, he guessed, but it was hard to tell considering how thin she was. Her breathing was shallow, almost polite, as though she were trying not to take up too much air. She slept with one small hand tucked under her cheek, peacefully in a way that felt obscene.

  Knez stared. He waited for the familiar surge of rage, the righteous anger every orc felt towards her kind.

  But it never came.

  Instead, something colder and heavier settled in his chest. Pity, maybe. Or recognition. He shook his head sharply, trying to dislodge the thought.

  Humans killed my family. My tribe. My kind.

  A voice—not quite his own—slipped through the cracks in his mind. 'And your kind have also killed each other. Who holds you captive now? Who flays your body and calls it justice? Is it humans?'

  He slammed the side of his fist against his temple, hard enough to make stars burst behind his eyes. 'Shut up.'

  'Who leads your people straight towards extinction? Are humans the only ones with blood on their hands?'. He clenched his jaws tightly. The tent walls seemed to lean inward, pressing the air from his lungs.

  Then a small, cool hand slipped into his.

  He froze.

  The girl’s eyes were open now—huge, blue, and bright. She looked at him without fear, only a child’s simple concern.

  “Did you have a bad dream?” Her voice was threadbare, barely more than a whisper. “Mommy says holding hands chases bad dreams away.”

  Knez stared at the fragile fingers curled around his. Words died in his throat. A hot line burned down the side of his face before he realized it was a tear.

  “Why?” The word scraped out, rough and bewildered. A child that young couldn’t possibly understand the depth of the question, yet he asked it anyway.

  She tilted her head, considering. “Mommy says… if I keep being a good girl, we’ll get to go home someday.”

  He pressed his free hand to his forehead, hard, as though he could crush the realization that was blooming behind his eyes.

  'What a fool I am. No—I am the greatest of fools. I can see, yet I blind myself.'

  He looked at her again. Really looked.

  “You did nothing wrong, child,” he said quietly. His voice cracked on the last word. He dragged the back of his elbow across his face in an attempt to wipe it, but only smeared it with dirt. “It’s this world that is wrong.”

  Her grip tightened—surprisingly strong for such a small hand. “Don’t cry,” she murmured. “If you don’t like the world… em, you can change it.”

  Innocent. Certain. As though it were the simplest thing.

  Then she broke into a violent cough. Her whole body jerked to it. When it passed she was even paler, breathing in shallow sips.

  She fumbled beside her and pulled out a small, battered storybook, its cover worn. Faded black letters spelled something he couldn’t make out.

  “Anna reads this… when she’s sad,” she said, offering it to him with both hands like a sacred thing.

  Knez hesitated. Every instinct screamed that he was betraying his tribe, his dead kin; the hate that had kept him alive. Yet he knew that this child in front of him had never lifted a blade, never burned a village, never even known his name until now.

  He reached out. His fingers closed around the book.

  Defeat tasted bitter on his tongue.

  He opened it, flipped through brittle pages covered in faded ink and clumsy drawings, then closed it again and handed it back.

  “Sorry, Anna,” he rasped. “I can’t read.”

  Her face fell for only a heartbeat before she gave him a small, tired smile anyway.

  Behind them, the tent flap lifted.

  The shaman stepped inside, herbs and bone charms clinking softly against his belt.