The first rays of dawn stretched over the horizon, their soft orange light breaking through the forest canopy. Dew clung to the leaves, the cool morning air carrying the faint scent of damp earth and smoke from the battle. It was quiet now, save for the rhythmic crunch of boots and the occasional murmur among the orcs. The group moved with a subdued purpose, a mix of victory and unease hanging heavy in the air.
Freed captives walked alongside their liberators, their steps hesitant and their eyes darting nervously. Relief etched their faces, but shadows of fear lingered—years of captivity had taught them not to trust peace too easily. Some leaned on the stronger orcs for support, while others carried bundles of meager belongings salvaged from the wreckage.
The slavers stumbled forward in chains, their heads bowed in defeat. They were flanked by heavily armed orc warriors who kept a watchful eye on them. Many of the captors still bore the lingering effects of the sickness Traveler had unleashed. A few coughed weakly, their faces pale and glistening with sweat, their bodies swaying with each step. The smell of c. diff clung to them like an acrid reminder of their fall from power.
Traveler walked near the front of the group, his new cloak shifting with the steady pace. His eyes scanned the line of captives and slavers, noting their conditions with a mixture of relief and determination. Despite the aches in his muscles and the occasional twinge of mana fatigue, he felt lighter this morning—his steps steady, his mind clear.
Beside him, Khaz’ara was silent, her amber eyes fixed on the path ahead. Her axe hung at her side, the blade still faintly stained from the battle. Her expression was unreadable, her usual sharp quips replaced by a quiet intensity. It was unlike her, and the change didn’t escape his notice.
“Alright, Khaz’ara,” he said, breaking the silence with his usual grin. “Who stole your sense of humor? Because this brooding thing doesn’t suit you.”
She glanced at him, her brow furrowing slightly. “I’m not brooding.”
“Right,” he said, drawing out the word as he gestured to her stiff posture. “You’re just radiating pure sunshine and joy this morning.”
Her lips twitched, but she didn’t quite smile. “We’re not out of this yet,” she said gruffly. “The village still has to decide what to do with the slavers. This isn’t over.”
His grin softened, his tone losing some of its playful edge. “I get that. But we won, Khaz’ara. You won. You brought your people back and took down Garr’khan. That’s worth celebrating, at least a little.”
She didn’t reply right away, her eyes flicking toward the freed captives walking a few paces behind them. One of the older orcs, a man with gray streaks in his hair, offered a quiet word of encouragement to a trembling goblin child. Khaz’ara’s gaze lingered on them for a moment before returning to the path ahead.
“They’ll need more than victory to heal,” she said quietly.
The weight in her voice made him pause. For all her strength and fire, Khaz’ara carried her people’s pain as if it were her own. He felt a flicker of admiration—and something deeper—that he couldn’t quite name.
“Well,” he said after a moment, his tone deliberately lighter, “lucky for them, you’ve got me. I’m great at fixing things. People, too, sometimes.”
Her sharp eyes cut toward him, but the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at her lips. “That so?”
“Oh, absolutely,” he said, spreading his arms theatrically. “I’m basically a traveling miracle worker. Haven’t you noticed?”
She snorted softly, shaking her head, but there was a warmth in her gaze now that hadn’t been there before. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are, stuck with me,” he replied with a wink.
Her smirk grew slightly, though she quickly masked it with a shake of her head. “Keep walking, traveler.”
He chuckled but didn’t push further, content to let the silence settle between them. As the group continued through the forest, the dawn light grew brighter, painting the path ahead with shades of gold. Despite the lingering tension, there was something undeniably hopeful in the air—a sense that, after everything, they were finally moving toward something better.
Traveler’s grin widened as they walked, the weight of the slavers’ chains clinking faintly in the distance, mingling with the sounds of the morning forest.
The orc warriors cast curious glances their way, a mix of amusement and intrigue on their faces. He caught one younger orc whispering to another, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he nodded toward Khaz’ara. Traveler chuckled softly under his breath, deciding to seize the moment.
“So, Commander,” he began, his tone light but carrying just enough playful emphasis on the title to make her glance at him sharply. “How does one climb the ranks of an orc warband? Is there some kind of axe-throwing contest? Wrestling matches? Or do they just hand you the title because you have the best scowl?”
Khaz’ara snorted, though her lips twitched faintly. “It’s earned, human. Through years of blood, sweat, and discipline. Something you wouldn’t understand.”
“Ouch,” Traveler replied, feigning a wince as he clutched his chest. “You wound me, Commander. I’ll have you know I’ve put in plenty of blood and sweat. Discipline, though... well, that’s debatable.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t bother responding, which only encouraged him. He stepped closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Seriously, though. You’re a natural at this. Leading warriors, inspiring fear in your enemies, inspiring confusion in me—it’s impressive.”
Her sharp amber eyes cut to him, narrowing slightly. “Confusion?”
“Well, yeah.” He gestured toward her with an exaggerated wave of his hand. “Look at you. Fearless leader of a band of badasses, wielding an axe that could probably chop down a forest in one swing, and yet somehow you still manage to keep me from doing something stupid most of the time. That’s a lot of responsibility. I don’t know how you do it.”
“You’re suggesting leading warriors is harder than keeping you in line?” she asked dryly, though the faintest glimmer of amusement flickered in her eyes.
“Exactly,” he said with mock seriousness. “I’m unpredictable, reckless, and, let’s face it, charmingly insufferable. Your patience is downright heroic.”
Her lips twitched again, this time leaning more toward a smile, but she quickly masked it. “I don’t need patience, Traveler. I need focus. Maybe you should try it sometime.”
“Oh, I’m focused,” he shot back, his grin softening as his tone grew more genuine. “Focused on the fact that you’re kind of amazing.”
That caught her off guard. Khaz’ara’s steps faltered just slightly, and she turned her head toward him, her brows furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“You,” he said, his voice calm but tinged with admiration. “You’re incredible at what you do, Khaz’ara. These people—your warriors, the captives—they look to you because you don’t just lead. You make them believe things can get better. That they can fight for something more. That’s not just strength—it’s a gift.”
For a moment, Khaz’ara said nothing, her sharp gaze locked onto him as if she were trying to determine whether he was mocking her. When she saw no hint of sarcasm, her expression softened, just a fraction. “You’re strange,” she muttered, her tone quieter than before. “You talk too much.”
“Guilty as charged,” Traveler said, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “But hey, someone’s gotta keep you from being too serious all the time. You’ll get wrinkles.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth quirked upward despite her best efforts. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re not denying I’m right,” he replied with a wink, earning a huff of exasperation.
The quiet snickers from nearby orc warriors didn’t escape her notice, and she turned her head, glaring at them with enough force to make them straighten and look away quickly. Traveler couldn’t help but laugh.
“Careful,” he teased. “They’re starting to figure out that you don’t hate me as much as you pretend to.”
“I don’t pretend,” she shot back, though her tone lacked its usual bite. “I tolerate you. Barely.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s exactly what they think,” he said, glancing toward the warriors again. “You might want to scowl more if you want to keep up appearances.”
Khaz’ara shook her head, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, here we are,” Traveler replied, his grin widening. “Walking side by side, trading banter, and proving to the world that even orc commanders and reckless humans can get along.”
Her gaze softened slightly, and she let out a low sigh. “Maybe,” she said, her voice quieter now. “But don’t push your luck.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, his tone light but carrying a note of sincerity. “After all, someone’s gotta stick around to keep you humble.”
Khaz’ara huffed softly, shaking her head again, but the faint smile on her lips lingered longer this time. And though neither of them acknowledged it, the warmth between them—the unspoken understanding, the growing bond—was impossible to ignore.
The rhythmic crunch of boots against dirt filled the dawn air, a steady beat to their collective march back to the village. The scent of earth, smoke, and morning dew mingled, grounding Traveler as his thoughts swirled. Ahead, the slavers stumbled in chains, their shoulders hunched, some still pale from the aftereffects of his sabotage. Behind them, the freed captives walked in clusters, their steps lighter but their eyes still shadowed by the memories of captivity.
Traveler moved near Khaz’ara, her presence an anchor amid the swirling emotions of victory and exhaustion. He glanced her way, catching the subtle tilt of her head as she scanned the forest. Her steps were deliberate, her expression unreadable, but even through her warrior''s stoicism, he felt the gravity of the day pulling at her.
A grin tugged at his lips as he leaned closer. “You’re not going to tell me I did a decent job back there, are you? I mean, saving the day and all.”
Khaz’ara’s amber eyes flicked to him, unimpressed. “Decent is generous. Foolish, reckless, loud—that’s closer to the truth.”
“Ouch,” he said, clutching his chest in mock pain. “You wound me, Commander. I was expecting at least a ‘not bad for a human.’”
She huffed, though he caught the faintest twitch of her lips. “You’ve got enough ego for ten warriors. The last thing you need is praise.”
He laughed, the sound light and genuine, but beneath it, his chest ached with a bittersweet weight. The banter was easy now, familiar in a way that surprised him. She didn’t look at him like an outsider anymore—at least, not entirely. The thought made his grin falter for a moment before he quickly masked it.
His gaze drifted to the captives, the freed children clinging to their parents, the elders limping along with the support of the orc warriors. Relief mixed with wariness on their faces, a quiet gratitude that didn’t quite erase the fear that had been etched into them for so long. He couldn’t blame them. Freedom didn’t erase scars—it just gave you the space to let them heal.
His eyes shifted again, this time to the slavers. Some shuffled silently, heads bowed under the weight of their defeat. Others trudged defiantly, their gazes cold but resigned. One still reeked of the sickness he’d set loose in the camp, the stench clinging to him like a warning. A part of him reveled in it, a satisfaction he couldn’t fully suppress. But it wasn’t enough—not yet.
“They should feel it too,” he muttered, almost to himself.
Khaz’ara glanced at him, her brows knitting. “What?”
“The slavers,” he said, louder now, his tone sharp. “They built their lives on other people’s pain. They should know what that’s like. Chains, whips, hunger—all of it.”
Khaz’ara’s gaze darkened as she studied him. “You’d turn them into slaves?”
“Not slaves,” he said, shaking his head. “Prisoners who live the lives they forced onto others. Let them build roads, dig trenches, haul timber until their hands bleed. Let them learn what it feels like to have no control. Maybe then they’ll understand what they took from those people.” He gestured to the captives behind them.
Her silence was heavy, and for a moment, he wondered if she’d argue. But then she nodded, her expression hard. “A warrior earns their freedom through honor. A slaver earns nothing.”
“Exactly.” His voice was steady, but inside, something twisted. Justice, he told himself. It wasn’t vengeance—it was balance. It was all he could offer the captives who’d suffered so much. But the weight of that choice lingered in the back of his mind, cold and unyielding.
His steps faltered, just slightly, as a different feeling curled at the edges of his thoughts—a pull, subtle but persistent, like a thread being tugged in the fabric of his being. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt it, but it was stronger now, more insistent. His brow furrowed as he let his gaze wander to the trees, the golden light of dawn filtering through their leaves.
Something was changing. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt it in his chest, a quiet certainty that his time here—his time with Khaz’ara, with the orcs—was coming to an end. It wasn’t fear or regret. It was... bittersweet.
He smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Figures,” he muttered under his breath.
“What figures?” Khaz’ara asked, her sharp tone breaking through his thoughts.
He looked at her, his grin returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nothing. Just thinking how much I’ll miss this when it’s over.”
She frowned, her amber eyes narrowing. “Over?”
“You know,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “Fighting side by side, saving the day, trading insults. Classic buddy-cop dynamic.”
Her brow twitched, and for a moment, he thought she might laugh. But instead, her gaze lingered, searching his face as though trying to decipher a code. “You’re hiding something.”
“Aren’t I always?” he said, deflecting with a wink. “Keeps the mystery alive.”
She huffed again, but this time, it sounded more exasperated than annoyed. “You’re impossible.”
“Noticed that, have you?” he said, his grin softening. “Don’t worry. You’re stuck with me for now.”
The silence stretched between them, comfortable but heavy with unspoken words. Around them, the orc warriors cast subtle glances, their expressions curious and amused. He caught one of them elbowing another, muttering something under his breath as they smirked.
“They’re watching,” Traveler said, leaning closer to Khaz’ara with a conspiratorial whisper.
She stiffened slightly, her eyes darting toward her warriors before returning to him. “Let them.”
He blinked, caught off guard by her response. The faintest hint of color crept up her neck, but her expression remained stoic. It was her way of saying she didn’t care—or maybe that she cared too much.
Traveler’s grin widened, but this time, it was softer, less teasing. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?”
Khaz’ara didn’t reply, but she didn’t need to. The way her steps matched his, the way her gaze lingered just a second too long—those small, unspoken gestures said more than words ever could.
And as the pull in his chest grew stronger, urging him forward, he couldn’t help but wonder what he’d be leaving behind. For the first time in a long while, the thought of moving on didn’t just feel exciting. It felt like loss.
The sun had climbed higher into the sky, casting warm, golden light over the forest path as the group emerged from the dense trees. The village lay ahead, a collection of sturdy huts and woven walls nestled within a wide clearing. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the sounds of village life carried faintly on the breeze—wood chopping, children laughing, the murmur of daily tasks.
As the first of the orc warriors stepped into view, a ripple of recognition spread through the villagers. Faces turned toward them, eyes widening, and then the cheers began. It started with a few voices, but soon the entire village erupted in a wave of joyous noise. Men and women dropped their tools, rushing forward to meet the returning group.
Villagers surged toward the freed captives first, their cries of relief mingling with emotional embraces. Though they hailed from different tribes, the bonds of shared suffering and survival erased any barriers. Captives were pulled into tearful hugs, their wearied faces breaking into hesitant smiles as they clung to family, friends, or strangers who welcomed them with open arms.
Traveler lingered toward the back of the group, watching the scene unfold with a mix of satisfaction and melancholy. The weight of the fight still sat heavy in his chest, but seeing the raw emotion on the villagers’ faces stirred something in him—an unfamiliar sense of accomplishment that felt both warm and distant, as though it didn’t quite belong to him.
Khaz’ara stood beside him, her sharp amber eyes scanning the crowd. For all her usual sternness, there was a softness to her expression now, a quiet pride in her people. When a young child ran up to her, clutching at her leg and beaming up at her with wide, tear-filled eyes, she crouched down, ruffled their hair, and murmured something that made them laugh before they ran back to their family.
“See?” Traveler teased, nudging her shoulder lightly. “You’re not as scary as you pretend to be.”
She glanced at him, her lips twitching in the faintest hint of a smile. “Don’t make me regret this moment of peace, Traveler.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Commander.”
As the villagers began to part, Grok’an stepped forward, his massive form commanding instant attention. The crowd quieted, their cheers fading into murmurs as they noticed the bound slavers being dragged to the center of the village. Chains rattled as the prisoners were forced into a crude holding area—an open space ringed with thick wooden stakes and guarded by armed warriors.
Grok’an turned to face the villagers, his voice booming. “These slavers sought to break us. To take what is ours and leave us in ruin.” His gaze swept over the crowd, lingering on the freed captives and their families. “But today, they stand defeated. Their fate will be decided by our elders, and by the will of this village.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd, some faces twisting with anger, others with uncertainty. Khaz’ara stepped forward, her voice cutting through the noise. “Justice will be served, but it will not be rushed. Let the elders speak first.”
Traveler leaned against a nearby post, watching the slavers with a critical eye. Most of them kept their heads down, their faces pale and slick with sweat. A few glared defiantly at the orcs, but their postures betrayed their fear. The lingering stink of sickness still clung to some of them, a grim reminder of the consequences they had barely survived.
As Grok’an and Khaz’ara spoke with the elders, Traveler couldn’t help but feel the weight of the moment. The village had endured so much, and now they stood on the cusp of justice—or vengeance. He only hoped they could find the balance between the two.
As the murmurs of the crowd began to settle, two figures emerged from the largest hut near the village’s center. Elder Druzh and Shorga the shaman stepped forward, their contrasting presences commanding attention. Druzh moved with the deliberate weight of his age, his gnarled staff thumping against the ground with each step. His sharp, weathered eyes locked onto the scene with an intensity that made Traveler’s skin prickle. Beside him, Shorga walked with a quiet grace, her ceremonial staff adorned with dangling charms that jingled softly with each movement.
The crowd parted respectfully, allowing the two to approach the makeshift holding area. Druzh’s gaze swept over the bound slavers, his expression hardening with disdain. When his eyes landed on Traveler, that disdain deepened, his lips curling into a sneer.
“So, the human is still here,” Druzh said, his voice carrying over the gathered villagers. “I had hoped our victory would mean his departure.”
Traveler resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead pushing off the post he’d been leaning on and folding his arms. “Good to see you too, Elder.”
The elder’s staff thumped the ground sharply, his expression twisting into a scowl. “Do not mock me, outsider. This is our village, our justice. Your interference has already cost us enough.”
Khaz’ara stepped forward, her voice firm but calm. “Elder Druzh, Traveler fought alongside us. He risked his life to bring these captives home.”
“Did he?” Druzh snapped, his glare fixed on Traveler. “Or did he simply seek to play the hero in a story that does not belong to him?”
Traveler met the elder’s gaze, feeling the weight of years behind those words. He understood the look in Druzh’s eyes—the resentment, the fear of change, the stubborn refusal to accept something outside the world he knew. It wasn’t new to him. He’d seen it before, back home, in old hands clutching at fading traditions, unwilling to bend even as the world shifted around them.
“I didn’t fight for your approval, Elder,” Traveler said, his tone steady. “I fought because it was the right thing to do.”
“Right?” Druzh’s laugh was bitter, hollow. “What does a human know of what is right for orcs? You do not belong here, yet you meddle in our affairs.”
Shorga placed a hand on Druzh’s arm, her voice soft but firm. “Elder, let us not forget the captives he helped free. Their lives were spared because of his actions. Whatever your feelings, his deeds cannot be ignored.”
Druzh jerked his arm away, but he didn’t argue further. Instead, he turned his focus to the slavers, his sharp eyes narrowing. “Their fate is ours to decide, not his. Outsider opinions hold no weight in our village.”
Traveler inclined his head slightly, recognizing the futility of pushing against Druzh’s perspective. The elderly rarely changed their ways, and Druzh seemed determined to carry his disdain to the grave. It wasn’t worth escalating, not here, not now.
“Fair enough,” Traveler said, stepping back to let Khaz’ara and the elders handle the proceedings. But as he moved, he caught Shorga’s gaze. There was a quiet understanding there, a subtle acknowledgment that not everyone saw him the way Druzh did.
The shaman turned her attention to the slavers, raising her staff high. The charms dangling from it caught the sunlight, casting shimmering reflections onto the bound prisoners. “These slavers sought to desecrate our lands and destroy our people,” she said, her voice calm but unyielding. “Their actions demand justice. But justice must not be blind vengeance. We will decide their fate with care.”
The crowd murmured in agreement, though some voices carried the unmistakable edge of anger. Traveler’s gaze drifted to the captives, their faces a mix of relief and uncertainty. The orcs around them moved with careful purpose, but there was still tension in the air—a reminder of the scars this conflict had left.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
Khaz’ara glanced at Traveler, her expression unreadable. “You seem quiet,” she said softly, stepping closer.
He shrugged, offering a faint smile. “Just trying not to stir the pot.”
“Wise,” she replied, though her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer. “You handled Druzh better than I expected.”
“Let’s just say I’ve dealt with his type before.” Traveler’s voice softened, his gaze flicking to the elder. “You can’t force people like him to change. They’re set in their ways, and pushing too hard just makes them dig in deeper.”
Khaz’ara nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. “And yet you stay.”
“For now,” he said, his voice tinged with an odd mix of humor and melancholy. “But I’m starting to feel like my time here is almost up.”
She didn’t reply, her amber eyes searching his face as if trying to decipher the meaning behind his words. The fire of her usual sharpness was muted, replaced by something quieter, more introspective. Whatever she was thinking, she didn’t voice it. Instead, she turned her gaze back to the village, watching as the crowd began to settle and the elders prepared to deliberate.
Traveler let the silence linger between them, his thoughts drifting once more to the pull he’d felt earlier. The feeling hadn’t lessened. If anything, it had grown stronger, a subtle but insistent reminder that his path didn’t end here.
+++++++++++++
The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light over the village as the elders and Grok’an assembled in the clearing. It was a natural amphitheater of sorts, ringed by towering trees whose ancient trunks bore silent witness to the proceedings. At its center, the slavers knelt in chains, their postures slouched but their expressions wary. Their wrists and ankles bore heavy iron manacles, secured with thick ropes tied to wooden stakes driven deep into the ground.
The villagers surrounded the clearing, a shifting sea of faces marked by anger and fear. Some clutched their children close, while others glared openly at the slavers, their hands gripping crude weapons or tools with white-knuckled intensity. The captives who had been freed from the camp stood among them, their presence a stark reminder of the atrocities committed by those now brought low.
Khaz’ara stood near the center of it all, her arms crossed as she scanned the gathering. Her axe hung at her side, its familiar weight a comfort even now. The tension in the air was thick, a palpable thing that settled heavy in her chest. This was more than a trial—it was a reckoning.
To her left, Grok’an loomed like a mountain, his broad shoulders and steady presence radiating authority. The chieftain’s expression was grim as he exchanged words with Elder Druzh, whose gnarled hand gripped his staff tightly. Druzh’s scowl deepened with every word, his hatred of the human still evident in the occasional glance he cast toward the treeline.
Khaz’ara followed his gaze, her eyes narrowing. Traveler was gone, having disappeared into the forest not long ago. He’d claimed he needed time to think, but she couldn’t shake the unease that prickled at the back of her mind. The idea of him wandering alone in the woods after everything they’d been through didn’t sit well with her.
Still, she had her duties here, and this trial wouldn’t wait for him to return.
“Commander.”
Khaz’ara turned to see one of her warriors approaching—a younger orc with sharp eyes and a serious expression. He saluted briefly before speaking. “The slavers are secure. There’s no sign of resistance.”
“Good,” she replied, her voice steady. “Make sure the perimeter is watched. I don’t want any surprises.”
The warrior nodded and stepped away, leaving her to return her focus to the trial. Druzh was addressing the crowd now, his voice carrying easily over the murmurs.
“These slavers,” Druzh began, his tone sharp and biting, “are not only enemies of this village but enemies of our people. They sought to take what was not theirs—to desecrate our homes and turn our kin into cattle for their greed.”
A ripple of anger swept through the crowd, muttered curses and growls rising like a tide.
Grok’an stepped forward, his deep voice cutting through the noise. “Justice must be served, but it will be decided here, by our elders and by the will of our people. This is not a time for blind vengeance, but for judgment.”
Khaz’ara’s gaze flickered to the slavers as Grok’an spoke. Some of them looked defiant still, their eyes darting about as if searching for an escape. Others hung their heads, their faces pale and drawn. She wondered if they understood what was about to happen—if they felt even a shred of remorse for what they’d done.
As the elders began their deliberations, Shorga stepped forward, her ceremonial staff jingling softly. She raised her hand, and the crowd quieted. “The spirits watch over this gathering,” she said, her voice melodic and calm. “They guide us toward balance and wisdom. Let us hear their whispers in the decisions we make.”
Khaz’ara couldn’t help but admire the shaman’s composure. Shorga had always been a voice of reason, even in the face of Druzh’s more rigid views. The two elders had clashed often, but in moments like this, they formed a precarious balance—tradition and spirituality woven together.
Khaz’ara’s attention drifted again, her mind tugged toward the forest. She hated the way her thoughts strayed toward Traveler, hated the strange pull his absence created. He was impossible, reckless, and infuriatingly smug, but... he’d become something more than an outsider. He’d proven himself time and again, not just with his sword but with his actions.
And now he was out there, alone.
“Khaz’ara,” Grok’an’s voice snapped her back to the present.
She turned to see the chieftain watching her closely, his brow furrowed. “Your thoughts?” he asked.
She straightened, her voice steady. “The slavers must answer for their crimes. Their actions harmed more than just this village—they wounded our people as a whole. They must face a punishment that reflects the weight of their deeds.”
Grok’an nodded, his expression approving. He looked back to the elders, who were deep in discussion, their voices low but firm. The crowd shifted impatiently, waiting for the final judgment to be spoken.
Khaz’ara glanced toward the treeline one last time, her sharp amber eyes scanning the shadows. He’ll come back, she told herself. He always does.
But the unease lingered, a quiet whisper at the edge of her thoughts.
++++++++++++++
The forest was alive with color, a symphony of light and shadow that danced between the ancient trees. Wisps floated lazily through the air, their soft glows casting shifting hues across the ground. They came in every color imaginable—blue and green, crimson and silver—swirling in unpredictable patterns like tiny, sentient flames.
And then there were the gold ones.
They were fewer now, scattered among the multicolored host like rare stars in a vast galaxy. Each one shimmered with a warm, pulsing light that seemed to echo faintly in the quiet stillness of the forest. They hovered near me, closer than the others, as if tethered to my presence.
The strangest part was that I didn’t have to channel energy into my eyes to see them. They were simply there, as natural and clear as the sunlight filtering through the canopy above.
I paused in a small clearing, letting my fingers trail across the rough bark of a nearby tree. The cool breeze carried the faint scent of moss and damp earth, soothing in its simplicity. For the first time in hours, I let myself breathe—really breathe—without the weight of battle or judgment pressing down on my shoulders.
Yet even in the stillness, something felt... different.
My steps were lighter, my movements quicker. The subtle aches that usually lingered after a fight were barely noticeable, fading faster than they had any right to. I flexed my fingers experimentally, feeling the strength that thrummed just beneath my skin.
It wasn’t just the rush of adrenaline or the golden wisp’s intervention. This was something else.
I rolled my shoulders, testing the range of motion, and frowned as realization settled over me. My body felt stronger—faster, more responsive. Not in the fleeting way it did when I channeled energy during a fight, but as though those changes had been etched into my very being.
“What the hell...?” I murmured, staring down at my hands.
The memory of combat with Garr’khan flashed through my mind—the golden energy surging through my veins, enhancing every strike, every step. I’d pushed myself harder than ever before, channeling mana into my body in ways that should’ve left me utterly drained. And yet, here I was, feeling sharper and more capable than ever.
A theory began to form, unbidden but undeniable.
Had I... changed?
The thought struck me like lightning. If channeling energy constantly had somehow enhanced my body—if those fleeting boosts had left a lasting imprint—then everything I knew about magic and its effects on the physical form needed reevaluation.
I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling the steady beat of my heart beneath my palm. It was as though my body had adapted, evolving to accommodate the energy I’d forced into it. The realization was both exhilarating and terrifying.
“Permanent enhancement,” I muttered, the words tasting foreign on my tongue.
My mind churned with possibilities, but it didn’t take long for it to circle back to him.
The man who had claimed to be my past deeds.
His words echoed faintly in my memory, that calm, almost amused tone as he had dissected my every action with unnerving precision. “Every step you take, every choice you make, carves into who you are. And you, my friend, have carved deep.”
I hadn’t fully understood him then—how could I? But now, standing here in this vibrant, impossible forest, I felt the weight of his words in a way I couldn’t ignore.
Had my past choices, my refusal to back down, my relentless drive to push forward, set this in motion? Was this what he’d meant when he spoke of carving into myself?
I exhaled sharply, raking a hand through my hair as I paced the clearing. The wisps followed me, their light shifting in time with my thoughts. The gold ones pulsed faintly, like silent encouragement, while the others swirled in chaotic patterns.
“Okay,” I muttered, forcing my thoughts to settle. “If this is real—if this is permanent—then I need to figure out how far it goes.”
The gold wisps pulsed again, their light warm and steady. I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were watching me—not in the way people did, but in a quiet, expectant way.
“Alright,” I said aloud, glancing toward them. “One step at a time.”
But even as I spoke, I felt the faint pull at the edge of my thoughts—a quiet whisper that told me my time with the orcs was nearing its end. It wasn’t sadness, exactly, but a deep, melancholic awareness. The village, Khaz’ara, and even Grok’an had become something close to a temporary home. And leaving that behind would be... hard.
I let the feeling settle, the forest breathing around me. The wisps drifted closer, their light blending into the soft glow of the clearing.
“I’ll figure it out,” I murmured to the air, my voice quiet but firm.
The forest didn’t answer, but the gold wisps pulsed one last time before drifting upward, disappearing into the canopy.
+++++++++++++++
The gathering of elders had devolved into a heated debate, voices rising above the crackling fire at the center of the clearing. The slavers knelt in chains, their faces pale and streaked with dirt, their bodies weakened by the battle and lingering effects of illness. Surrounding them, the villagers stood in a loose circle, their expressions a mix of anger, fear, and grim satisfaction.
Elder Druzh, his gnarled hands gripping a walking stick, jabbed it toward the captives. “They deserve no mercy. Execution is the only fitting end for creatures like them!”
“Exile would be more appropriate,” argued another elder, a stout orc woman named Vora. Her tone was firm but less vengeful. “Let them wander the wilderness. The wilds will judge them as they judged our kin.”
Grok’an stood with arms crossed, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the slavers. His tusks gleamed in the firelight as he growled, “These men caused too much pain to simply let them go. Execution is not just justice—it’s necessity. Their survival only invites more of their kind.”
The murmurs from the villagers grew louder, some echoing Druzh’s call for blood while others nodded toward Vora’s suggestion.
Khaz’ara stood at the edge of the gathering, her arms crossed as she watched the scene unfold. Her sharp amber eyes flicked between the elders, gauging their resolve. Druzh, as always, was driven by hate—a fire that burned hotter whenever the traveler was mentioned. Vora, pragmatic as ever, sought to avoid further bloodshed. Grok’an was steady, his leadership clear, but his anger was just beneath the surface, fueled by the years of suffering inflicted by slavers like these.
And then her eyes caught movement at the edge of the village.
The traveler.
He strode through the gathering, his steps light but deliberate, his head tilted slightly as though he was deep in thought. His new cloak swayed with his movement, and though he seemed casual, there was a strange weight in his expression.
Khaz’ara felt something shift in her chest—something that made her stand a little taller, her heart beating a little faster. Her thoughts flashed to his earlier suggestion, his bold declaration that the slavers should taste the same suffering they’d inflicted on others. It had been a reckless idea, almost laughable in its irony, but she hadn’t been able to shake the sense of justice in his words.
“Enough!” she called out, her voice sharp and cutting through the noise of the debate. The elders and villagers turned toward her, their murmurs falling silent.
She stepped forward, her gaze locking onto Grok’an’s. “You speak of justice, of retribution. But we owe a great deal to the one who ensured our victory.”
Grok’an frowned slightly, his brow furrowing. “What are you saying, Khaz’ara?”
She gestured toward the traveler, her tone steady and commanding. “I say that the one who defeated Garr’khan—the one who gave us this chance for justice—should have a say in how it is delivered.”
The crowd stirred, murmurs rippling through them like a wave. Elder Druzh’s face darkened, his tusks grinding together. “You would give him the power to decide our enemies’ fate?” he spat, his tone dripping with disdain. “A human?”
Khaz’ara held her ground, her sharp gaze cutting toward Druzh. “Why not? He fought for us. He bled for us. And he stood against a monster that even we feared. His actions earned him that right.”
The traveler paused, his dark eyes flicking between the slavers and the gathered crowd. For a moment, Khaz’ara saw something flicker in his gaze—an emotion she couldn’t quite name. He tilted his head slightly, his usual grin pulling at the corner of his lips.
“Well,” he said lightly, stepping closer to the circle. “If you insist.”
Khaz’ara fought the urge to roll her eyes. Even now, he couldn’t help but be insufferable. But there was a strange warmth in her chest as she watched him approach the center of the clearing, his posture casual but his presence undeniable.
Grok’an’s deep voice rumbled across the crowd. “The traveler has earned his place among us, Druzh. Let him speak.”
The elder growled under his breath but said nothing more, his knuckles tightening on his staff.
Khaz’ara watched as the traveler stopped just short of the slavers, his gaze sweeping over them. He studied their faces, the way they flinched under his scrutiny, the way their chains rattled faintly with every nervous movement.
Finally, he looked up, meeting the eyes of the crowd. “I stand by what I said earlier,” he began, his tone light but firm. Traveler stepped forward, the firelight casting flickering shadows across his face as he addressed the gathered villagers and elders. His tone was calm, deliberate, but the intensity in his eyes spoke volumes.
“These men,” he began, gesturing toward the slavers bound in chains, “have caused suffering. They’ve torn apart families, stolen freedom, and left scars that might never fully heal. You all know this—many of you have felt it firsthand. And now, the question we face is: What should be done with them?”
The murmurs in the crowd quieted as his voice carried over them, each word sinking into the tense silence.
Khaz’ara felt her pulse quicken as his words hung in the air, her sharp eyes catching the way the villagers leaned in, their expressions torn between curiosity and uncertainty.
He continued, his voice carrying an edge of conviction. “I know what you’re thinking. The simplest answer is to end their lives. A sword through the heart, a clean break from this world. And I get it—justice is supposed to be swift, right? But is that really justice? Or is it just vengeance wearing a prettier face?”
Traveler’s gaze swept over the villagers, lingering on the freed captives standing at the edges of the crowd. “I’ve seen what vengeance does. It’s a fire that burns hot but leaves nothing but ash behind. And ash can’t rebuild homes, can’t heal wounds, can’t make anyone whole again.”
He took a step closer to the slavers, his eyes locking onto one of them—a man who visibly flinched under his stare. “These men took everything from others. Their actions weren’t born of desperation or survival—they were deliberate. Calculated. Cruel. And that’s why they don’t deserve the mercy of death. No. They should face the weight of what they’ve done.”
He turned back to the crowd, his voice rising slightly, filled with conviction.
The fire crackled behind him as his words settled over the gathering, the villagers and elders exchanging uncertain glances. Traveler stood tall, his voice steady “There’s a quote I heard once, by a great man” he said, his eyes scanning the gathered orcs and freed captives. “‘Usually, when people are sad, they don''t do anything. They just cry over their condition. But when they get angry, they bring about a change.’”
The murmurs began again, louder this time, as the villagers exchanged glances and whispered among themselves.
He stepped forward, his gaze locking onto the elders, then sweeping to the villagers. “Anger is powerful. It’s a spark. It’s what brought you here, what helped you fight back. But anger alone can’t sustain a future. You’ve already shown you’re stronger than what these men tried to make you. Now it’s time to channel that anger into change—real, lasting change.”
His tone hardened, each word striking like a hammer on an anvil. “Don’t just punish them. Don’t just cry over what they’ve done. Make them tools for your future. Let your anger become the force that rebuilds what they tried to destroy. That’s how you honor those they hurt. That’s how you make sure their crimes don’t happen again.”
Traveler straightened, his arms at his sides but his presence towering. “You’ve already proven you’re survivors. Now, prove you’re builders, too. Take the anger, take the pain, and make something out of it that no one can ever take away.”
Khaz’ara couldn’t stop the faint smile that tugged at her lips. You truly are impossible, she thought, her admiration for him growing despite herself.
The elders exchanged looks, their faces a mixture of skepticism and thoughtfulness. Grok’an’s gaze lingered on the traveler, his brow furrowed as though weighing the human’s words. Finally, he gave a slow nod.
“You’ve made your case, traveler,” Grok’an said, his tone steady. “Now, let the elders decide.”
The traveler stepped back, his grin widening just enough to catch Khaz’ara’s eye. She rolled hers in return but felt the warmth in her chest grow just a little stronger.
Khaz’ara watched the crowd’s reaction ripple like a storm passing through the forest. Traveler’s words hung heavy in the air, their weight undeniable, but their reception fractured. Some elders exchanged wary glances, their faces lined with skepticism, while murmurs swept through the villagers, ranging from quiet agreement to sharp objections.
Elder Druzh, his voice dripping with disdain, was the first to break the silence. “This... outsider speaks of change as if it is so simple. As if the scars these men left on our people can be healed with their sweat and toil.” He gestured sharply at the chained slavers, his tusks flaring. “They deserve no redemption. Their lives should end here, as payment for the lives they stole.”
A murmur of agreement followed from some of the older villagers, their eyes burning with hatred. Khaz’ara felt the tension grow, the crowd swaying like a taut rope about to snap.
Grok’an stepped forward, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over the kneeling slavers. His gaze, heavy and deliberate, swept over the crowd. “Elder Druzh is not wrong,” he rumbled, his deep voice carrying over the restless noise. “These men caused great suffering. They stole lives and broke spirits. But...” He paused, turning to look at Traveler, who stood silently, his dark eyes steady. “The traveler’s words hold truth.”
The chieftain straightened, his stance firm. “Execution is justice, yes. But it’s fleeting. Their pain would last moments, while the pain they caused lingers for years. For generations. If we want true justice, we must make them bear the weight of their actions. Let them suffer as they made others suffer. Let them serve as a reminder of what we will never again allow.”
His words quieted the crowd, the force of his authority evident. Khaz’ara saw a flicker of approval in Traveler’s expression, though he said nothing, his posture calm yet commanding.
The elders began to debate amongst themselves, their voices low but intense. Shorga, the shaman, stepped forward, her tone measured as she addressed her fellow elders. “There is wisdom in both paths,” she said. “But what Grok’an and the traveler propose is not mercy. It is justice with purpose. A chance to rebuild while ensuring these men pay for their crimes every day they draw breath.”
Elder Druzh scoffed but said nothing more, his arms crossed as he glowered at Traveler. The other elders murmured in hushed tones, weighing the arguments carefully.
As the discussion carried on, Khaz’ara’s gaze shifted to Traveler. He stood apart, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, his expression unreadable. Yet she saw it in his eyes—a mix of resolve and melancholy, as if he knew his time here was nearing its end. The villagers watched him, too, their expressions ranging from wary distrust to quiet respect.
Finally, Grok’an turned to the elders, his tone firm. “It is time to decide.”
The elders exchanged glances, and one by one, they nodded. A majority had sided with Traveler’s proposal. Elder Druzh was the last to respond, his face a mask of simmering disdain. He grunted sharply but offered a reluctant nod, his eyes narrowing at Traveler as if daring him to falter.
The verdict was clear, and Khaz’ara felt the tension in the air shift. The slavers, their faces pale and their eyes wide with dread, seemed to grasp the full weight of their fate. Their punishment would not be swift—it would be long, grueling, and unrelenting.
As Grok’an announced the decision to the gathered villagers, Khaz’ara glanced back at Traveler. His gaze met hers, and for a moment, the crowd and the noise seemed to fade. There was something in his expression—a quiet pride, tempered by a trace of sadness—that made her chest tighten.
Whatever was coming next, she realized, would mark a turning point. For the slavers. For the village. And for Traveler himself.
The slavers were herded away under heavy guard, their chains clinking in a somber rhythm. Their faces betrayed the despair settling in as the full weight of their punishment began to sink in. I stood back, watching as they were led toward their new reality—a life of hard labor, paying back what they’d taken from the world.
It should’ve felt like a victory, and maybe it was. But something gnawed at me, an ache that wasn’t quite physical. It started as a quiet hum, a whisper at the edge of my thoughts, and grew louder with every breath I took.
That pull again.
I looked around the village, my eyes tracing over the scene unfolding around me. Warriors walked among their people, checking on the wounded, offering quiet reassurances. Freed captives sat in small groups, their shoulders sagging with relief as they clung to loved ones or simply sat in the first real peace they’d known in months—maybe years.
It felt... complete. The chaos of the past few days had given way to something steady, something solid. I wasn’t needed here anymore. The orcs had each other, and they were beginning to heal. They didn’t need me to fight their battles or show them the path forward.
I exhaled deeply, leaning against a sturdy post near the edge of the central clearing. My fingers brushed absently over the hilt of my sword, its golden glow long since faded. A sense of closure settled over me—not quite satisfaction, but something close. My purpose here, whatever it had been, was fulfilled.
“Feels... final,” I muttered under my breath, the words disappearing into the cool air.
The pull sharpened, no longer a hum but a steady, insistent tug in my chest. It wasn’t a voice or a command. It was instinct, pure and undeniable. I needed to move on. Where? I didn’t know. But the feeling left no room for doubt. My time here was done.
I pushed off the post and walked slowly toward the heart of the village, taking in the sights with a strange mix of pride and melancholy. The warriors nodded to me as I passed, some hesitating before offering quiet words of thanks. The freed captives didn’t speak to me directly, but their glances carried gratitude, cautious and distant as it was.
I paused by a group of young orcs who were tending to a wounded elder. They worked quickly, their hands steady, their focus unbroken. One of them glanced up at me and gave a hesitant smile before returning to his task. It was such a simple thing, but it stirred something deep in my chest.
They’re going to be okay.
I let the thought settle, sinking into the weight of it as I continued walking. My feet carried me to the edge of the village, where the forest began to reclaim the land. The trees loomed tall and vibrant, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. The pull in my chest eased slightly, as if to tell me I was heading in the right direction. But something still held me back—a thread that hadn’t been cut yet.
I looked over my shoulder, back toward the village. Back toward her.
Khaz’ara.
The thought of leaving her twisted something in my gut, a mix of excitement and melancholy I couldn’t quite pin down. She’d been there through all of it, fierce and commanding, her sharp amber eyes always watching. She was the first to challenge me, the first to question me, and the first to believe in me when it mattered most.
And now, I might never see her again.
The breeze whispered through the forest, rustling the leaves in a soothing cadence. I leaned against a moss-covered tree, staring into the dense, untamed wilderness ahead. My hands fidgeted with the edge of my cloak, my thoughts tangled in the decision I’d already made.
“Traveler.”
Her voice broke through the quiet like the edge of a blade, sharp and commanding yet layered with something softer. I turned to see Khaz’ara stepping through the underbrush, her gaze locked on me with that familiar intensity.
She stopped a few paces away, crossing her arms as she studied me. “You’ve been avoiding the village,” she said, her tone more matter-of-fact than accusatory.
I offered a half-smile, scratching the back of my neck. “Not avoiding. Just... thinking.”
She raised a brow, clearly unimpressed. “You’re a terrible liar.”
I laughed lightly, though the sound felt hollow. “Okay, maybe avoiding a little.”
Khaz’ara tilted her head, her amber eyes narrowing slightly as if she were piecing something together. “You’re planning to leave.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, and hearing it out loud sent a pang through my chest. I exhaled slowly, nodding.
“Yeah,” I admitted, my voice quieter than I intended. “I think it’s time.”
Her expression flickered—surprise, maybe, or something deeper—but she quickly masked it, her features settling into a neutral calm. “Why now?”
I looked away, back toward the forest, as I tried to find the right words. “There’s this... pull. I can’t explain it. It’s like the universe is telling me my work here is done. You don’t need me anymore.”
Khaz’ara’s eyes darkened, her brows furrowing as she stepped closer. “That’s not true. The tribe—”
“Will be fine,” I interrupted gently. “They’ve got you, Grok’an, the warriors. They’ve got each other. You don’t need some strange human throwing things off balance.”
Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she shifted her weight slightly, her arms dropping to her sides. “Where will you go?”
I hesitated, running a hand through my hair as I let out a wry chuckle. “That’s the thing—I don’t know. Somewhere out there.” I gestured vaguely to the horizon. “The world’s bigger than I ever imagined, and there’s so much I don’t understand. I’ve got this... mission, I think. Something I have to do, even if I don’t have all the answers yet.”
Khaz’ara studied me, her expression unreadable. “A mission.”
“Yeah,” I said, meeting her gaze. “To make the world better. To leave it in a better state than I found it—whatever that looks like. Maybe that means helping people like I did here. Maybe it means learning more about magic, or stopping people like Garr’khan. I don’t know yet. But I can’t do it by staying in one place.”
She was silent for a long moment, her sharp eyes searching mine. I couldn’t tell what she was looking for—or if she found it—but eventually, she let out a quiet sigh. “You really are impossible.”
I grinned faintly, though my chest felt heavier. “That’s what you keep telling me.”
Khaz’ara’s lips twitched, almost into a smile, but she quickly looked away, staring into the forest with a distant expression. “If this is what you feel you have to do, then... I won’t try to stop you.”
“Thank you,” I said softly, the words carrying more weight than I expected.
She nodded, though her eyes stayed fixed on the trees. “But you’d better not get yourself killed, traveler. I don’t want to hear stories about some idiot human dying because he bit off more than he could chew.”
I chuckled, a genuine laugh this time. “I’ll do my best, Commander.”
Khaz’ara’s gaze lingered on the horizon for a moment before she turned back to me, something unspoken glinting in her amber eyes. Her jaw tightened, and for the first time since she’d arrived, she looked uncertain—like she was struggling to find the right words.
“Traveler...” she began, her voice steady but quieter than usual. She took a step closer, her hands twitching slightly at her sides before she crossed her arms again, a familiar stance. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Uh-oh,” I said, a grin tugging at my lips. “That’s never good.”
She shot me a sharp look, but there was no real heat behind it. “I’m serious.”
“Alright, alright,” I said, holding up my hands in mock surrender. “I’m listening.”
She hesitated, her eyes darting briefly to the ground before meeting mine again. “You’re reckless. You rush into things without a plan half the time, and you’ve got this... ridiculous way of turning everything into a joke, even when you’re about to die.”
“Wow, don’t hold back,” I said with a laugh, though I felt a slight pang in my chest. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“I’m not done,” she said, her tone firm but her lips twitching faintly. She took a breath, her expression softening. “But... you’ve also done things I didn’t think were possible. You took down Garr’khan, you gave the elders a solution they couldn’t see, and you’ve... helped us. Helped me.”
Her words hit harder than I expected, and I found myself standing a little straighter. “Khaz’ara, I—”
“I’m coming with you,” she said suddenly, cutting me off.
I blinked, taken completely off guard. “Wait, what?”
“You heard me,” she said, her voice regaining its usual confidence. “You’re going to get yourself killed if someone isn’t there to watch your back. And let’s be honest—you need me more than you think.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again, my brain scrambling to process what she’d just said. For a moment, I felt a rush of something I hadn’t expected—excitement, maybe even giddiness—but I quickly masked it behind a lopsided grin. “You sure this isn’t just an elaborate excuse to get out of village life?”
Her eyes narrowed. “And what if it is?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re full of surprises, Commander.”
“Someone has to keep you in line,” she said, her tone dry but her expression softening. “And besides... the village will be fine without me. They’ve got Grok’an, the elders, and the warriors. My path isn’t here anymore.”
I studied her for a long moment, my grin fading into something more genuine. “Are you sure about this? It’s not exactly a vacation, you know. There’s danger, uncertainty, and a lot of me talking.”
She smirked faintly. “I think I can handle it.”
I couldn’t help but laugh again, shaking my head in disbelief. “Well, Khaz’ara, welcome to the party. I hope you know what you’re getting into.”
“Someone has to keep you alive,” she said with a shrug, but there was a glint in her eyes that spoke of something more.
As we stood there, the forest quiet around us, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the start of something new—not just for me, but for both of us