The forest stretched out before us, darker and quieter than before, as if even the trees were holding their breath. Khaz’ara and I crouched behind a dense thicket, our breathing low, our movements deliberate. Ahead, the slaver camp came into view.
The camp was crude but functional, the kind of place built for efficiency, not comfort. Makeshift tents ringed a central bonfire, their weathered fabric flapping in the faint breeze. Bound captives were clustered near a line of battered wagons, their hands tied and their faces streaked with dirt. The faint sound of muffled sobs reached my ears, tightening the knot in my chest.
“Slavers,” Khaz’ara muttered, her voice low and venomous. She pointed with the butt of her axe toward a pair of guards patrolling near the captives. “Humans. Typical.”
But as my gaze swept the camp, I noticed something that made me freeze. Among the humans and elves moving through the camp was a creature unlike any I’d seen before. It was small, no more than four feet tall, with greenish skin and sharp, angular features. Its movements were quick and deliberate, its beady eyes darting from side to side as if cataloging everything around it.
“Is that... a goblin?” I whispered, unable to hide the curiosity in my voice.
Khaz’ara’s expression darkened. “Yes. And before you start feeling sorry for it, understand this: goblins like that one are traitors. They’ve aligned themselves with slavers, thinking it’s the only way to survive. They trade our suffering for their own safety.”
Her words carried a bitterness that ran deep, but I couldn’t help the pang of sympathy that stirred within me. The goblin’s stature, its nervous energy—it was hard not to see it as a victim of circumstance, even if it had chosen to become an oppressor. Still, I nodded, keeping my thoughts to myself. This wasn’t the time for debate.
As we continued watching, my attention was drawn to the captives. Most were orcs, their broad shoulders and tusks marking them as Khaz’ara’s kin, but there were a few goblins among them, bound and huddled together. My fists clenched at the sight of their hopeless faces. These people were no different than the ones Khaz’ara had told me about—victims of a system that saw them as commodities, not individuals.
“Do you see that?” Khaz’ara whispered, her voice cutting through my thoughts. She pointed toward the far side of the camp, where a group of soldiers stood near a large, well-constructed tent. Unlike the other slavers, these men and women were clearly professionals. Their armor gleamed even in the dim light, their stances disciplined. They weren’t the scrappy, mismatched rabble I’d expected.
“What are soldiers doing here?” I asked, frowning. “They don’t look like mercenaries.”
“They’re not,” Khaz’ara said, her tone laced with anger. “Those are kingdom troops. Look at their armor—it bears the crest of the nearby human-elf alliance.”
My stomach churned. Kingdom soldiers, working with slavers? It was one thing to hear about it from Khaz’ara, but seeing it firsthand was another. This wasn’t just a band of opportunists—it was an organized operation, sanctioned or at least tolerated by a kingdom that should have been protecting its people.
Khaz’ara’s hand suddenly gripped my arm, her nails biting into my skin. “There,” she hissed, her voice taut with a mix of shock and fury.
I followed her gaze, my breath catching as I saw him. At the center of the camp, surrounded by the kingdom soldiers, stood the leader of the slavers. He was tall and broad, his armor polished and adorned with the same crest as the soldiers. His presence radiated authority, his movements deliberate and commanding.
But what struck me most wasn’t his demeanor or his armor—it was his face. His green skin, the tusks jutting from his lower jaw, the unmistakable shape of his broad features. He was an orc.
“That can’t be right,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Why would an orc...?”
Khaz’ara’s grip tightened, her knuckles white. “Garr’khan,” she spat, the name dripping with venom. “That bastard.”
“You know him?” I asked, my shock giving way to confusion.
Her jaw tightened, her eyes locked on the orc in the camp. “He’s a traitor,” she said, her voice low and bitter. “He sided with the kingdoms during the rebellion. Sold out his own people to save his hide—and to gain power.”
My mind reeled, struggling to process the sight before me. An orc leading a group of slavers, working with kingdom soldiers—it went against everything I’d come to understand about Khaz’ara and her tribe’s fight for freedom. But as I looked at Garr’khan, his posture and presence exuding confidence, I realized this wasn’t a simple story of heroes and villains. The world, as always, was far more complicated.
Khaz’ara’s hand trembled slightly, though her expression remained fierce. “We need to decide, traveler,” she said, her voice steady despite the fire in her eyes. “Do we report this to the tribe—or take him out ourselves?”
I looked back at the camp, my heart heavy with the weight of the decision ahead. The captives, the soldiers, the traitor at the center of it all—this wasn’t just about strategy anymore. It was about justice, about doing what was right in a world that seemed intent on being wrong.
The golden wisp flitted into view at the corner of my vision, its light faint but steady, as if urging me forward. Whatever choice we made, I knew one thing for certain: this mission had just become far more personal.
The weight of what I was seeing pressed down on me like a boulder. An orc, proud and commanding, standing at the center of a camp filled with slavers. His armor gleamed under the dim light of the campfire, bearing the crest of the human-elf kingdom. Garr’khan wasn’t just working with the slavers—he was leading them.
My mind reeled, struggling to reconcile the image before me. Orcs, to me, had been proud, resilient, unified in their struggle against oppression. Khaz’ara herself embodied that strength, her fierce determination a reflection of everything I thought her people stood for. But this... this was something else entirely.
“How...” I began, my voice trailing off as I turned to Khaz’ara. “How is this possible?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Her amber eyes were fixed on Garr’khan, her expression a storm of anger and something deeper—something she was trying to bury. Her hand gripped the hilt of her axe so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
“Khaz’ara?” I asked gently, my concern outweighing my confusion. “Are you alright?”
Her jaw clenched, her lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, I thought she might brush me off with one of her usual sharp remarks. But instead, she exhaled slowly, her grip loosening just slightly. “That’s Garr’khan,” she said, her voice low and taut. “A name every orc knows—and not for the right reasons.”
I glanced back at the camp, my eyes drawn to the imposing figure of Garr’khan as he barked orders to the soldiers and slavers around him. “Who is he?” I asked, keeping my voice soft.
Her gaze didn’t waver. “He was a warlord. One of our strongest during the rebellion. Back then, he was a symbol of hope—proof that we could stand against the wizards and their armies.” She paused, the bitterness in her tone sharpening. “But he turned on us. Sold his allegiance to the kingdoms, to the wizards who offered him wealth and power in exchange for our freedom.”
The words hung heavy in the air, thick with betrayal. I struggled to process what she was saying. “So he... betrayed his people? To... slavers?” The disbelief in my voice was impossible to hide.
“Not all of us were united in the rebellion,” Khaz’ara said, her tone cutting. “Some orcs thought they could survive by siding with the wizards or the kingdoms. They convinced themselves they were choosing the ‘greater good.’” She practically spat the words, her tusks bared. “And some wizards weren’t like the ones who created us—monsters who saw us as disposable. Some offered alliances, protection. It wasn’t freedom, but it was better than what we had.”
I stared at her, trying to reconcile this reality with the image I’d formed of her people. “And Garr’khan?”
Her eyes flicked back to him, burning with barely restrained fury. “He didn’t just side with the kingdoms. He turned our secrets against us. Sold information about our hideouts, our tactics, our people. Hundreds died because of him—tribes wiped out. And when the rebellion finally ended, when we drove the wizards out and claimed our freedom, Garr’khan disappeared. I thought he was dead.” She exhaled sharply. “But here he is. Still playing king to slavers.”
Her voice cracked at the edges, but her anger quickly masked the vulnerability. She gripped her axe again, her shoulders tense as if preparing for battle. “He’s not just a traitor,” she said, her voice trembling with restrained rage. “He’s a monster.”
I could see the fire in her eyes, the way her whole body seemed coiled and ready to strike. But there was something else too—a rawness beneath the fury. The weight of memories she hadn’t shared, wounds that hadn’t healed.
“Khaz’ara,” I said gently, placing a hand on her arm. She flinched but didn’t pull away, her amber eyes snapping to mine. “Are you okay?”
For a moment, I thought she might snap at me, brush off the question like it was nothing. But instead, she hesitated, her gaze searching mine. Finally, she sighed, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly. “No,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “I’m not.”
The admission surprised me, but I didn’t press. Instead, I gave her the space to continue, sensing she needed to get this out. She glanced back at the camp, her expression softening—not with forgiveness, but with the weight of old grief.
“I was yet unborn when the rebellion started,” she said, her voice steady but distant. “I was told my family risked everything to stand against the wizards. Garr’khan was a hero to them back then. I remember the way my mother spoke about how my father spoke of Garr’khan, the way he believed we could win because of him.” She paused, her grip on the axe tightening again. “And then he turned. Betrayed us. The wizards came to our village, knowing exactly where to strike, who to kill. My father...” She trailed off, her jaw tightening as she swallowed hard. “He didn’t make it.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. What could I say to that? Instead, I settled for the truth. “I’m sorry, Khaz’ara.”
Her eyes flicked to mine, the faintest hint of gratitude in their depths. “It’s in the past,” she said, though the way her voice wavered told me it wasn’t that simple. “But seeing him here... after all this time...”
“It’s not fair,” I said quietly. “For someone like him to survive—while so many others didn’t.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she nodded. “No. It’s not.”
We sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of the camp distant but ever-present. I wanted to say something, to offer some kind of comfort, but nothing felt adequate. So instead, I did what little I could.
“You’re not alone in this,” I said, my voice steady. “Whatever happens next, I’m with you.”
Her gaze softened, the hard edges of her expression easing for the first time since we’d spotted Garr’khan. She studied me for a moment, as if weighing the sincerity of my words. Finally, she nodded. “Thanks, traveler. That means... more than you know.”
The moment lingered, the tension between us shifting into something quieter, something unspoken. But the distant sound of shouting from the camp pulled us back to the present, the weight of our mission settling heavily once more.
Khaz’ara straightened, her determination hardening again. “We need to decide,” she said, her tone resolute. “Do we go back and tell the tribe—or do we handle this ourselves?”
I glanced back at the camp, my gut churning with the enormity of the decision. Garr’khan’s betrayal, the captives, the slavers—it was all tangled together, a knot that wouldn’t be easy to unravel. But one thing was clear: we couldn’t walk away.
“Let’s figure it out,” I said, gripping the hilt of my sword. “Together.”
The distant sounds of the slaver camp buzzed in the background, faint but constant—laughter, the crackle of the bonfire, the clinking of metal. The weight of the conversation about Garr’khan still lingered between us as Khaz’ara and I crouched low in the thicket, our breaths slow and measured.
Khaz’ara’s amber eyes were locked on the camp, her expression tense and unyielding. I could almost feel the turmoil beneath her calm facade—the rage simmering just beneath the surface, barely held in check. My own thoughts swirled in chaotic loops, but I tried to focus, to think clearly. The stakes were too high for rash decisions.
“We need to act,” Khaz’ara said finally, breaking the silence. Her voice was low, firm, and carried an edge I hadn’t heard before. “We can’t let this go on.”
I nodded slowly, my gaze shifting to the captives bound near the wagons. “Agreed. But we need to figure out the best way to do it.”
She turned to me, her expression hard. “The best way is to take them out now, before they have a chance to move. We hit them fast, while they’re distracted. It’s the only way.”
I hesitated, glancing at the camp again. The slavers weren’t just thugs and opportunists—they had soldiers among them, disciplined and alert. And then there was Garr’khan, towering over the others, radiating authority and experience. Even with Khaz’ara’s strength and my powers, the odds weren’t in our favor.
“You’re not wrong about striking fast,” I said carefully, my voice measured. “But if we rush in without a plan, we risk everything—the captives, our lives, and the chance to bring Garr’khan down for good.”
Khaz’ara’s jaw tightened, her grip on her axe white-knuckled. “And what do you suggest, traveler? That we run back to the village and beg for help? By the time we return, they’ll be gone—or worse, the captives will be dead.”
Her words hit hard, but I didn’t back down. “I’m not saying we do nothing,” I replied, keeping my tone calm. “I’m saying we think this through. You said it yourself—there are too many of them. If we go in and fail, we don’t just die. We lose the captives, too. And Garr’khan gets away again.”
She turned back to the camp, her shoulders tense. “So, what? We let them get away? Let Garr’khan keep doing this—keep betraying our people?”
“No,” I said firmly, leaning closer. “We regroup. We bring reinforcements. We come back stronger. This isn’t just about Garr’khan—it’s about saving those people. And we can’t do that if we’re dead.”
Her head snapped toward me, her eyes flashing with anger. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t care about them?” Her voice cracked, just slightly, the anger wavering into something rawer.
I softened my tone, placing a hand on her arm. “I know you do. That’s why we have to be smart about this. This isn’t just a fight—it’s a rescue. Those people’s lives depend on us doing this right.”
For a moment, she didn’t respond. Her gaze flicked back to the camp, her breathing shallow. Then, slowly, she exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. “You’re not wrong,” she admitted, her voice quieter. “But waiting, leaving them there... it feels like failing.”
“It’s not failing,” I said gently. “It’s making sure we don’t make things worse. Look, I’ve seen this kind of situation before—not exactly like this, but close enough. When you rush in without a plan, people die. And not just the ones you’re trying to stop.”
She glanced at me, the sharpness in her eyes tempered by something softer. “You’re speaking from experience?”
I nodded, my chest tightening with the memories. “Yeah. Back where I’m from... there were times we had to make those calls. Times when charging in felt like the right thing, but it wasn’t. I’ve seen what happens when you don’t think things through, and it’s not something I want to see again.”
Khaz’ara studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she sighed, her hand falling away from her axe. “Alright, traveler. Let’s say we go back to the village. What’s the plan then? How do we make sure they don’t slip away while we’re gone?”
I frowned, considering. The slavers wouldn’t stay here indefinitely—especially with captives to transport. If we left now, we’d need a way to track them, to ensure we didn’t lose their trail. My gaze drifted to the golden wisp still hovering nearby, its light faint but steady.
“I think I can mark their path,” I said, an idea forming. “If I can use the wisps, I might be able to leave a trail for us to follow later. It’s not perfect, but it could buy us time.”
Her eyes flicked to the wisp, her brow furrowing. “You’re sure that’ll work?”
“No,” I admitted. “But it’s worth a shot. And it’s better than rushing in blind.”
She hesitated, the conflict clear on her face. Her anger and pride were warring with her practicality, the weight of her past pressing against the reality of our present. Finally, she nodded, her jaw set. “Alright. We’ll do it your way—for now. But if they move before we get back...”
“We’ll make sure they don’t,” I said, my voice steady. “And when we come back, we’ll do this right. Together.”
Her expression softened just slightly, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Together, huh? Starting to sound like a real orc, traveler.”
I chuckled, the tension easing just a bit. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
As we began to move back toward the trees, the golden wisp flitted closer, its glow brighter now, almost reassuring. The slaver camp loomed behind us, a stark reminder of what was at stake. But for the first time since we’d arrived, I felt a flicker of hope. We had a plan, however imperfect, and we had each other.
And for now, that was enough.
The sounds of the slaver camp hummed faintly in the distance, a grim reminder of the stakes before us. Khaz’ara’s gaze burned into the clearing, her knuckles still white around the haft of her axe. The tension between her fury and practicality was palpable, and for a moment, neither of us spoke.
Finally, I broke the silence, the weight of the situation pressing on my chest. “What if we didn’t both leave?” I said, my tone tentative but firm.
Khaz’ara’s head snapped toward me, her amber eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about?”
I took a deep breath, steadying my voice. “You head back to the village, get reinforcements. I stay here, act as a distraction, and keep them occupied.”
Her face darkened instantly. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“Is it?” I countered, keeping my tone calm. “Think about it. If we both leave, they might move before we get back. But if I stay, I can throw them off. Slow them down. Maybe even learn something useful.”
Her grip on the axe tightened, her jaw clenching visibly. “You’d get yourself killed.”
“Not necessarily,” I said with a faint smile, trying to ease her anger. “I’m not planning on charging in or taking them all on. I’m talking about guerilla tactics—keeping them off balance. Just enough to buy you time.”
Khaz’ara’s glare didn’t soften. “And what happens when they catch you? You think Garr’khan’s going to show you mercy because you’ve got shiny magic tricks?”
I shrugged, my grin faltering slightly. “I’ve got my powers, and I’ve been working on controlling them. Besides, I’ve got something they don’t: the element of unpredictability. They don’t know who I am or what I can do.”
She shook her head, stepping closer. “Traveler, this isn’t some game. These are slavers—killers who’ve done this a thousand times. You think you can outsmart them by yourself?”This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
“I think I can give you enough time to get back with help,” I replied evenly. “And that’s the point, isn’t it? The captives, Garr’khan—they’re the priority. Not me.”
Her amber eyes searched mine, a mix of anger, frustration, and something else I couldn’t quite place. “You’re insane,” she muttered, though her voice had lost some of its sharpness.
“Maybe,” I admitted with a faint smile. “But if it keeps those people alive, isn’t it worth it?”
She looked away, her gaze locking back onto the camp. For a moment, the only sound between us was the faint rustling of the forest. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, almost hesitant. “And what if you don’t make it? What if I come back and you’re—”
“I’ll make it,” I said, cutting her off gently. “I’ve gotten this far, haven’t I? Besides, I’ve got a knack for survival. Ask anyone back in the village.”
Her laugh was short and bitter. “You’re not making this easy, you know that?”
“It’s not supposed to be easy,” I said, my tone softening. “But it’s the best chance we’ve got. You know it as well as I do.”
Khaz’ara turned to face me fully, her expression stormy. For a long moment, she just stared at me, as if trying to see something beyond the surface. Finally, she exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Fine,” she said grudgingly. “But if you do anything stupid—”
“I won’t,” I promised, cutting her off. “I’ll be careful.”
“You’d better be,” she muttered, her voice low. “Because if you get yourself killed, I’ll find a way to bring you back just so I can kill you again.”
I couldn’t help but grin, despite the seriousness of the situation. “Deal.”
She didn’t smile back, but the faintest flicker of something softened her expression. “I’ll move fast,” she said. “And when I get back, you’d better still be in one piece.”
“I’ll be here,” I said confidently, even as my stomach churned with nerves. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
With one last hard look, she turned and disappeared into the forest, her footsteps light and swift. I watched her go, the weight of the mission settling heavily on my shoulders. Turning back to the camp, I took a deep breath, the golden wisp flickering faintly at my side.
“Alright,” I muttered to myself, steeling my resolve. “Time to get creative.”
As the camp loomed ahead, the familiar hum of mana stirred within me. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. For now, it would have to be
As Khaz’ara disappeared into the forest, her swift movements fading into silence, I took a deep breath, letting the enormity of the task ahead settle in. Alone, outnumbered, and outgunned—or outsworded, in this case. The logical part of me screamed to stay hidden and wait, but my gut urged me to act. Sitting idle wasn’t an option, not with captives’ lives on the line.
“Alright,” I muttered to myself, crouching behind a thick patch of underbrush. “Think, think, think. What’s the play here?”
The idea hit me like a bolt of lightning, ridiculous and brilliant all at once. “A wizard,” I said aloud, a grin creeping across my face. “A mysterious, enigmatic traveling wizard. Who would dare offend a wizard and risk the wrath of their faction?”
I leaned back against a tree, the plan already beginning to take shape. Wizards, from what little I’d seen and learned, carried a certain mystique and authority in this world. If the slavers thought I belonged to one of those powerful factions—or better yet, was an independent rogue wizard—they might hesitate to attack. That hesitation would be my opening.
And if they didn’t hesitate? If things went south? My grin widened as a backup plan formed, inspired by one of my favorite old action movies. “Then I become the alien hunter. Picking them off one by one from the trees. Make weird noises. Classic.”
Excitement hummed through me as I dug into the supply bag Khaz’ara and I had brought. My fingers brushed against something thick and coarse. Pulling it out, I found a heavy, fur-lined cloak, meant for keeping warm during the frigid forest nights. It was an earthy brown, weathered but sturdy. The material’s rough texture didn’t scream "wizard," but with the right flair—and some creative use of mana—I could make it work.
I threw the cloak around my shoulders, pulling the hood up over my head. It was oversized and hung low enough to shadow my face, adding an air of mystery. “Not bad,” I muttered, adjusting the fit. “Not bad at all.”
Rummaging further in the bag, I found a few odds and ends that could sell the act. A small leather pouch of dried herbs and roots—probably for cooking, but they looked arcane enough. A flask of water that could pass for a potion. And the finishing touch: my sword. It might not have been a traditional wizard staff, but I could channel mana into it and make it glow. Nothing screamed "wizard" like glowing objects, right?
I stood, fastening the cloak and arranging my makeshift props. The golden wisp, ever-present at my side, flickered as if curious about my plan. “Don’t look at me like that,” I said, smirking. “It’s a great idea. You’ll see.”
Closing my eyes, I focused on channeling mana into my cloak. The energy rippled outward, spreading through the fabric like a living current. The cloak shimmered faintly, its edges tinged with a soft, golden glow. Not too much—just enough to look otherworldly without being over the top. I adjusted the glow around the hood, letting shadows dance across my face.
Grabbing my sword, I willed a similar effect along its blade. The faint golden light hummed as it flickered to life, bathing the steel in an ethereal aura. I swung it experimentally, pleased with how dramatic it looked.
“Now we’re talking,” I said, admiring my handiwork. “Mysterious wizard, level one unlocked.”
The plan wasn’t foolproof. It relied on bluffing, improvisation, and a whole lot of luck. But it was a plan nonetheless. The thought of walking straight into the slaver camp sent a jolt of adrenaline through me, but there was no turning back now.
Taking one last deep breath, I stepped out from my hiding spot and began the trek toward the camp. The golden wisp floated just ahead, its light faint but steady, like it was guiding me. With every step, the sounds of the camp grew louder—the crackling of the central bonfire, the low murmur of voices, the occasional clink of metal.
As I neared the camp, I hunched my shoulders, letting the cloak fall heavily around me. My free hand tightened around the hilt of my sword, the glow of mana flickering faintly along the blade. I kept my head low, my hood shadowing my face. The key to this bluff was confidence, and I wasn’t about to let doubt creep in.
“Alright,” I muttered under my breath as the camp came into view. “Showtime.”
The air around the slaver camp was thick with the scent of smoke and sweat, the bonfire casting flickering shadows against the rough canvas tents. Varn adjusted his grip on his spear, his gaze sweeping the forest line with the practiced boredom of a man who’d spent too many days on guard duty. The rhythmic clink of chains from the captive wagon grated on his nerves, blending with the occasional barked orders of his comrades.
He hated this job.
Not that he had a choice. People like him—desperate, disgraced soldiers without a home—weren’t exactly drowning in options. Working as a slaver wasn’t glamorous, but it put food in his belly and coin in his pocket. At least, that was what he told himself when the nightmares woke him.
Varn exhaled through his nose, shifting his weight as his eyes scanned the treeline. He didn’t expect trouble—no one ever did this deep in the wilderness. The orc tribes wouldn’t dare attack outright, not with Garr’khan running things. The man had a reputation, and not just because he was an orc. Garr’khan’s alliances with the kingdoms, his iron-fisted leadership—it all made him untouchable.
Or so Varn thought.
His fingers drummed against the shaft of his spear as he turned to glance at the perimeter. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just the usual endless stretch of forest, the kind that—
A faint glow.
Varn froze, his heart skipping a beat. There, just at the edge of his vision—a faint, golden light bobbed between the trees. It was distant, subtle, almost like a firefly. But it wasn’t natural. He knew that much.
“What the...?” he muttered, squinting into the gloom.
The glow grew brighter, steadier, as it moved closer. Slowly, deliberately. Varn gripped his spear tighter, his palms slick with sweat. His mind raced, dredging up half-forgotten tales from his soldiering days—stories of wizards. Powerful, merciless wizards. He’d seen one once, years ago, during a border skirmish. The man had been unassuming, draped in a simple robe, but when he spoke, his voice had commanded the elements themselves. Fire, lightning, winds that tore men apart—Varn still remembered the screams.
This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.
And yet, the light grew closer.
From the shadows of the forest, a figure emerged. Cloaked and hooded, his face shrouded in shadow. The golden glow flickered along the edges of his robe, like embers barely contained. In one hand, he carried a sword, its blade alight with the same unearthly shimmer. His steps were measured, deliberate, and every instinct in Varn’s body screamed to run.
He stumbled backward, nearly dropping his spear. “No, no, no... not here,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “Why would a wizard be here?”
The figure stopped just at the edge of the camp’s clearing, the golden glow casting eerie shadows that seemed to writhe across the trees. Varn couldn’t see the man’s face, but he felt the weight of his gaze—a pressure that pressed down on him like an invisible hand. The air itself seemed heavier, charged with an unnatural energy.
Varn’s throat tightened as he fumbled for words. “H-Halt! Who goes there?” His voice cracked, betraying the terror clawing at his chest.
The figure tilted his head, almost curiously, and raised his free hand. A faint ripple of golden light spread outward, a silent warning that needed no words. Varn’s spear slipped from his trembling hands, clattering to the ground.
He didn’t wait for an answer. Didn’t wait to see what the figure would do next. He turned and bolted, his boots thudding against the packed dirt as he sprinted toward the camp’s center. Panic drove his steps, and his breath came in ragged gasps.
When he reached the central bonfire, he nearly collided with his superior, a grizzled man named Marek who had served under Garr’khan for years. “What in the blazes is wrong with you, Varn?” Marek barked, grabbing him by the collar.
“Wizard!” Varn gasped, clutching Marek’s arm like a lifeline. “There’s a wizard—at the edge of the camp!”
Marek’s expression darkened, his grip tightening. “A wizard? Are you sure?”
“Yes!” Varn’s voice cracked, his wide eyes filled with terror. “Golden light—cloak—sword! He’s right there!”
Marek cursed under his breath, his jaw tightening as he glanced toward Garr’khan’s tent. “Stay here,” he ordered sharply, shoving Varn toward the fire. “Don’t move.”
Varn didn’t argue. He collapsed onto the ground, his chest heaving as he stared at the treeline. The golden glow was still there, flickering faintly in the distance. A silent, ominous promise.
Marek strode toward Garr’khan’s tent, his face pale despite his grizzled demeanor. Whatever confidence the slavers had in their camp’s security, it was crumbling fast. And Varn couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning
++++++++++++++++++++++
Garr’khan sat at the head of the camp’s largest tent, a goblet of spiced wine in his hand. The flickering light of the bonfire outside cast jagged shadows on the canvas walls, creating a dance of flames that suited his turbulent thoughts. His armor, though slightly worn from years of use, gleamed dully in the dim light—a stark reminder of the kingdom he now served.
He hated wizards.
It wasn’t just their arrogance or their self-proclaimed superiority. It was their power. Their ability to twist the world to their will, to destroy armies with a flick of their wrist. Garr’khan respected strength, but magic? Magic was an affront to strength. It bypassed the hard work, the blood and sweat that earned power. Yet he’d seen enough of it to know that dismissing it outright was foolish. Wizards were not to be trifled with.
A slaver burst into the tent, breathless and pale as if he’d seen a ghost. Garr’khan’s amber eyes snapped to him, narrowing with irritation. “What is it, Varn?” he growled, his voice a low rumble that silenced the man instantly.
“A wizard, my lord,” Varn stammered, his words tumbling out in a rush. “He’s here, at the edge of the camp. Golden light, a sword—he just... he walked out of the woods like he owned the place!”
Garr’khan’s grip on the goblet tightened, his knuckles whitening. He set it down with deliberate care and rose to his full height, his towering form casting a shadow over the trembling slaver. “A wizard with a sword?” he repeated, his tone laced with disbelief.
“Yes, my lord,” Varn said, his voice quivering. “And the glow—it wasn’t like anything I’ve ever seen. It was gold, like—like fire, but... but not.”
Garr’khan frowned, his tusks glinting in the faint light. Wizards rarely carried swords; they relied on their spells, their artifacts, their arrogance. A wizard with a sword—and golden magic, no less—was not something he’d ever encountered. The strangeness of it set his instincts on edge. Wizards were manipulative, cunning. This one might be playing a deeper game.
“Gather the guards,” Garr’khan commanded, his voice steady but firm. “I’ll see this ‘wizard’ myself.”
He stepped out of the tent, his heavy boots crunching against the dirt as he moved toward the bonfire. The camp buzzed with nervous energy, slavers muttering in hushed tones as they glanced toward the treeline. Garr’khan’s sharp eyes scanned the forest, and then he saw him.
The figure emerged from the shadows like a predator stepping into the open. Cloaked and hooded, the golden glow radiated faintly around him, catching on the edges of his weathered cloak. He walked with an air of detached confidence, his movements precise and deliberate, as though every step was calculated to exude dominance. The sword in his hand gleamed faintly, its blade catching the firelight like liquid gold.
Garr’khan’s eyes narrowed. Wizards did not walk like that. Wizards floated, flounced, or moved with theatrical drama to intimidate. This one moved like a soldier, or perhaps a predator. The sword alone was baffling enough, but the golden glow was entirely unfamiliar. Garr’khan prided himself on his knowledge of magic—enough to respect and despise it—but he’d never seen a wizard like this.
The “wizard” strode through the camp as if he owned it—and everyone in it. His head was held high, his hood shadowing most of his face, but the confidence in his posture was undeniable. He stopped near the bonfire, turning his head slightly as if surveying the camp’s inhabitants, before continuing toward Garr’khan without hesitation.
Garr’khan’s soldiers, hardened men who had faced death in countless forms, shrank back. He could see the tension in their shoulders, the nervous glances they exchanged. Varn wasn’t exaggerating; the man’s mere presence radiated an authority that unnerved even Garr’khan’s seasoned crew.
But Garr’khan wasn’t like them. He clenched his jaw, forcing his unease into the pit of his stomach. Wizards thrived on fear, and he would not give this one the satisfaction. Straightening his shoulders, he stepped forward, his deep voice cutting through the murmurs of his men. “Who are you, and what business do you have here, wizard?”
The figure stopped, tilting his head slightly. For a long moment, he said nothing, the silence pressing down on the camp like a heavy fog. Then, in a voice calm and measured, he replied, “I am a traveler with little patience for delays.”
Garr’khan bristled at the tone, his tusks gleaming in the firelight. He took a step closer, his hand resting on the hilt of his axe. “You think to walk into my camp, uninvited, and speak as if you command us?”
The man didn’t flinch. Instead, he took another step forward, the golden glow intensifying ever so slightly. “Command? No. I simply expect respect. After all, you wouldn’t want to offend someone like me, would you?”
The words were calm, detached, yet they carried a weight that settled uncomfortably in Garr’khan’s chest. This wasn’t how wizards usually behaved. There was no grandiose display, no spells flung wildly to prove superiority. This one carried himself with a quiet confidence, his movements deliberate, his voice steady. It reminded Garr’khan of something—someone—but he couldn’t place it.
“What’s your game, wizard?” Garr’khan growled, his eyes narrowing. “You’re no emissary of the kingdoms. Your kind doesn’t come here unless they’re looking for trouble.”
The man tilted his head, his sword glinting as he shifted it slightly. “Perhaps I am trouble. Or perhaps I’m here to solve yours. That depends entirely on you, doesn’t it?”
The words struck Garr’khan like a challenge, and for a brief moment, he considered testing the man’s mettle. But something in the golden glow, the quiet way he carried himself—it made Garr’khan hesitate. This wizard wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t just powerful; he was something else entirely.
And Garr’khan hated that he couldn’t tell what.
++++++++++++++++++++++
The air in the slaver camp was thick with tension, a strange mixture of smoke, sweat, and something colder—fear. It clung to the air like an oppressive fog, seeping into every shadow and whisper. As I stepped out of the treeline, cloaked and glowing faintly with the golden light I had carefully maintained, the reactions were immediate.
Heads turned. Conversations stopped. The ambient noise of the camp—the crackling of the bonfire, the occasional clink of chains—seemed to fade into the background as dozens of eyes locked onto me. My steps were slow, deliberate, each one measured to exude calm authority. Inside, my heart pounded, but I shoved that aside, detaching from the nerves and emotions clawing at me. I had done this before, in a way—walking into chaos and pretending I had it under control. Ambulance calls, triage scenes, the fire chief''s no-nonsense swagger. That was the mask I wore now.
I wasn’t just walking into a camp of slavers. I was walking into their minds, planting seeds of doubt and unease.
The golden glow was subtle but effective, just enough to catch their attention without screaming "fireworks." The sword at my side, its edge faintly pulsing, added a layer of unpredictability. Wizards didn’t carry swords. That much I knew from Khaz’ara’s lessons. They were supposed to carry staffs or wands, tools to amplify their magic. Not weapons meant for close combat.
I saw the confusion ripple through the camp like a wave. Whispers darted between the guards, growing louder with every step I took toward the central bonfire. One of them—a wiry man with a patchy beard—shrank back, his face pale. A goblin nearby froze, his sharp, calculating eyes darting from the glow to my sword, as if trying to calculate his odds of escape. The goblin’s small, hunched figure was alien to me—green skin, oversized ears, and quick, jittery movements. It was my first time seeing one, and despite the situation, my curiosity flared. But I pushed it down. Focus.
I locked onto the largest figure by the bonfire: the orc leader. His imposing form stood out even among the chaos, his armor catching the flickering light as he watched me approach with a mix of suspicion and disdain. His amber eyes, sharp and calculating, tracked every movement I made. The tusks that jutted from his lower jaw glinted faintly as his mouth tightened into a grim line.
Good. He was already wary.
I stopped just before the fire, the glow around me casting long shadows on the ground. Tilting my head slightly, I let the silence stretch, knowing it would do more than any immediate words. The firelight danced across the faces of the slavers around me, their fear palpable in the way they clutched their weapons or took half-steps back, as if distance would save them.
The orc leader finally stepped forward, his voice a low growl that cut through the silence. “Who are you, and what business do you have here, wizard?”
The disdain in his voice was thick, but there was something else beneath it—a flicker of respect, or maybe caution. He was testing me, measuring me, like a predator deciding whether I was prey or threat.
I let a faint smile curl at the corner of my mouth, just enough to convey confidence without arrogance. “I am a traveler,” I said evenly, keeping my tone calm and detached. “And I have little patience for delays.”
The orc’s eyes narrowed. His soldiers shifted uneasily behind him, their fear barely contained. One of them, a human with a scarred cheek, shot a glance at the leader as if silently asking permission to run. The goblin, meanwhile, had crouched low, his sharp gaze fixed on me with a mix of awe and suspicion.
“And you think,” the orc growled, stepping closer, “that you can walk into my camp, uninvited, and speak as if you command us?”
I met his gaze, tilting my head slightly. “Command? No. I simply expect respect. After all, you wouldn’t want to offend someone like me, would you?”
The words hung in the air, deliberately calm but carrying an edge. The golden glow around me pulsed faintly, just enough to reinforce the weight of my presence. I wasn’t entirely sure if this would work—if the combination of theatrics, confidence, and sheer bluff would hold—but I had no choice. This wasn’t just about me; it was about buying time for Khaz’ara and the others.
The orc’s grip tightened on the axe at his side, his tusks bared slightly in a grimace. For a moment, I thought he might attack outright. But then his eyes flicked to the sword at my side, and his expression shifted. Confusion. Wizards didn’t carry swords. And certainly not ones that pulsed with golden energy.
“What’s your game, wizard?” he demanded, his voice sharper now. “You’re no emissary of the kingdoms. Your kind doesn’t come here unless they’re looking for trouble.”
I let the faint smile return, keeping my posture loose but deliberate. “Perhaps I am trouble. Or perhaps I’m here to solve yours. That depends entirely on you, doesn’t it?”
The tension in the camp was electric, every slaver and soldier frozen in place as they waited for the orc leader’s response. He studied me intently, his sharp eyes scanning every detail—the sword, the glow, the way I stood. I could see the gears turning in his mind, his instincts battling with his hatred for wizards and his respect for their power.
Finally, he let out a low, rumbling laugh. It wasn’t friendly, but it wasn’t entirely hostile, either. “You carry yourself well, wizard,” he said, his tone grudging. “But don’t think for a moment that I trust you.”
I inclined my head slightly, mimicking the calm detachment of my old fire chief. “Trust isn’t necessary. Cooperation will do.”
The orc’s eyes narrowed again, but he didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he gestured to one of the guards. “Bring him to the tent. If he’s playing games, we’ll find out soon enough.”
As the guards moved to flank me, I kept my expression neutral, my steps measured. Inside, my mind raced, calculating every detail of the camp, every potential escape route. This was a dangerous gamble, but for now, it seemed to be working.
All I could do now was hold my ground—and hope Khaz’ara would return before my luck ran out.
++++++++++++
The forest blurred around me as I sprinted through the undergrowth, my boots crunching against the damp soil in rhythm with my pounding heartbeat. The sounds of the camp faded behind me, replaced by the familiar rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of birds startled by my passing. But even the forest felt different now, heavier, like it was holding its breath for what was to come.
I couldn’t stop thinking about him—the human, the traveler, the walking ball of reckless optimism wrapped in golden light. His plan had been ridiculous, audacious, and utterly dangerous, yet he’d stood there, calm as a stone, convincing me to leave him behind.
I should’ve argued harder. The thought gnawed at me, but there was no time for doubt now. Every second counted. The village was far, and the slavers wouldn’t stay complacent for long.
The memory of his parting words replayed in my mind: “Trust me, Khaz’ara. You’ve got your mission, and I’ve got mine.” That infuriating calm, like he had everything under control. Like he didn’t realize how fragile the balance was, how quickly one wrong move could get him killed—or worse.
My grip tightened around the haft of my axe, the leather-wrapped handle digging into my palm as I pushed myself harder. The forest whipped past me in a blur, branches snagging at my braids and cloak. My breathing was steady, but anger simmered just beneath the surface, giving me fuel. Not anger at him—not entirely—but at the situation, at the risks we were forced to take.
I knew the odds. Garr’khan wasn’t just another slaver; he was a warlord, a traitor, and worse, a seasoned fighter with a mind for strategy. Even with his ridiculous golden glow and strange powers, the traveler didn’t stand a chance if Garr’khan decided to test him. That was assuming the rest of the camp didn’t tear him apart first.
And yet... he hadn’t hesitated. Not once. He’d looked me in the eye and promised he’d hold their attention, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he trusted me to come back with help.
That trust cut deeper than I’d expected.
I leapt over a fallen log, my boots skidding slightly as I hit the ground running. The forest path grew clearer as I neared the outskirts of the village, the familiar shapes of gnarled trees and moss-covered rocks guiding my way. My lungs burned, but I didn’t slow. Not yet.
When the first wisp appeared, a faint blue shimmer weaving through the air ahead of me, I felt a flicker of relief. The wisps were a good sign, a sign I was close. But the golden one didn’t appear, and that absence gnawed at me. He’d used them so often, those strange, glowing things that seemed to answer only to him. What if something had gone wrong? What if—
Focus, Khaz’ara.
I shook the thoughts away, forcing my mind to the task at hand. The village gate came into view, the sturdy wooden palisade rising like a beacon of safety. Orc sentries patrolled the perimeter, their figures silhouetted against the dimming light. One of them spotted me and raised an alarm, the sharp sound of a horn echoing through the trees.
“Khaz’ara!” Grok’an’s deep voice boomed as I approached. The chieftain met me at the gate, his expression a mix of concern and urgency. “What’s happened?”
I doubled over, catching my breath for a moment before straightening. “Slavers,” I said, my voice tight. “A camp not far from the western pass. Garr’khan is leading them.”
The name hit him like a blow, his eyes narrowing. “Garr’khan? You’re sure?”
I nodded, my grip tightening on my axe. “Saw him myself. He’s got captives—our kin. And there’s something else.” I hesitated, my thoughts flashing to the traveler. “The human stayed behind. He’s... distracting them.”
Grok’an’s brow furrowed, his gaze sharp. “Distracting them? You left him there alone?”
“It was his idea,” I said quickly, straightening to meet his glare. “He’s buying us time. But we need to move, Grok’an. Now.”
The chieftain’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “We’ll gather the warriors. Quickly.”
He turned, barking orders to the sentries, who sprang into action. The village stirred to life, the sound of metal and leather filling the air as warriors armed themselves. I paced near the gate, my pulse still racing. Every second we delayed felt like an eternity.
“You trust this human?” Grok’an asked as he returned, his massive axe strapped across his back.
I hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “He’s... different. Strange, but capable. And he’s willing to risk his life for our people. That’s more than I can say for most outsiders.”
Grok’an studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, his tone softer. “Then let’s hope his gamble pays off.”
As the warriors assembled, I couldn’t shake the image of him from my mind—standing tall, cloaked in golden light, walking into that camp like he owned the place. Part of me wanted to believe he could pull it off, that his confidence wasn’t misplaced. But another part, the part forged in the fires of rebellion and loss, whispered that hope was a dangerous thing.
“Hold on, traveler,” I murmured under my breath as the gates opened and we marched into the forest. “We’re coming.”