Zephyr's breath caught in his throat, a sharp gasp that burned his lungs, as the orc leader towered over him, a hulking figure carved from muscle and malice. His scarred green skin, etched with jagged lines from countless battles, glistened with a sheen of sweat that caught the dawn light piercing the slum's thick, swirling mist. The war axe in his hands gleamed with a cruel, serrated edge, its wooden haft worn smooth by years of slaughter, raised high with deadly intent. The beastman's eyes blazed with a fiery hatred, deep-set and bloodshot, his tusks curving upward like polished ivory, stained with the remnants of past kills. Behind him, two more orcs emerged from the shadows, their weapons drawn—crude axes with rusted blades and a gnarled club studded with iron spikes—blocking the lean-to's frail exit with their broad, menacing frames. Zephyr's heart raced, a frantic drumbeat pounding in his chest, reverberating through his ribs, as he clutched his dull sword, its chipped edge a pitiful defense in his trembling, mud-streaked hands. The mud clung to his boots, a thick, sucking mire that dragged him downward, the cold slime seeping through his tattered Varyn cloak to chill his skin with an icy bite. Varkis stood at his side, dagger glinting with a silver edge that reflected the faint light, his gray fur bristling with fierce determination, ears twitching at every sound.
"Time to run," Varkis had urged, his voice a desperate whisper, but the orcs' relentless advance sealed their fate, leaving no path to flee through the narrow, debris-strewn alleyways.
The leader struck, the axe whistling through the air with a deadly hum that sliced the silence, aimed straight for Zephyr's skull. He ducked, the blade passing so close he felt the rush of wind against his scalp, and a sharp, searing pain flared as the haft grazed his cheek, leaving a thin, stinging cut that wept a trickle of blood. The warm, slick liquid ran down his face, a stark contrast to the icy fear that gripped his spine and turned his limbs to lead. Adrenaline surged through his veins, sharpening his senses to the damp, earthy scent of mud, the orc's rancid breath heavy with the stink of raw meat, and the distant murmur of the beastman crowd. He lunged forward, his sword slashing at the beastman's thick, corded thigh with all his might. The blade bit into the tough flesh, drawing a guttural roar that shook the air, but the orc's bulk barely wavered, his stance unshaken by the shallow wound. Varkis darted in with feline grace, his dagger flashing as it struck the leader's muscled arm, the blade sinking deep enough to force the orc to stagger with a bellow of rage that echoed off the shacks. The crowd of beastmen outside the lean-to murmured, a chaotic blend of guttural cheers for the orc's brutality and hushed, sympathetic whispers for the outcast noble, their voices rising and falling like a restless tide.
Zephyr stumbled, the mud sucking at his feet like a living trap, its cold tendrils pulling him deeper, but he rallied, swinging his sword with renewed fury, the motion sending jolts of pain through his aching shoulders. The orc parried with ease, his strength overwhelming, a wall of muscle that sent Zephyr's blade flying from his grasp, the steel landing in the mire with a wet, resounding splash that sprayed filth into the air. Panic clawed at his throat, a cold hand tightening its grip, as helplessness washed over him, a bitter tide that threatened to drown his resolve. The second orc charged Varkis, his club swinging in a wide, brutal arc that displaced the air with a whoosh. Varkis rolled aside, agile as a shadow dancing on the wall, and slashed the orc's leg with surgical precision, the dagger cutting through fur and flesh to bring him down with a heavy thud and a grunt of agony that reverberated through the lean-to. The leader turned on Zephyr, axe raised for a killing blow, its edge catching the light like a promise of death, and Zephyr dove for his sword, fingers scrabbling through the slick mud until they closed around the hilt, the metal cold and slimy in his grasp. He rolled aside just as the axe crashed down, embedding deep into the lean-to's wooden wall, splintering the frame with a resounding crack that sent shards flying.
Varkis leaped onto the fallen orc, his dagger plunging deep into the beastman's broad chest, the thrust ending the fight with a wet, gurgling sound that faded into silence. Zephyr seized the moment, driving his sword into the leader's side with a desperate, forceful thrust that sank through muscle and bone. The orc roared, a thunderous cry that shook the air, staggering backward, and Zephyr yanked the blade free with a sickening squelch, striking again at the thick, sinewy neck. Blood sprayed in a warm, sticky arc, coating his hands and face as the beastman collapsed, his massive frame crumpling to the mud, the axe slipping from lifeless fingers to sink into the earth with a dull thud. The third orc hesitated, his eyes wide with shock, then turned and fled, vanishing into the swirling mist that cloaked the slum's depths. Silence fell, broken only by Zephyr's ragged, gasping breaths and the slow, rhythmic drip of blood into the mire.
He sank to his knees, chest heaving with exhaustion, the blood from his cheek mingling with the filth on his face in a muddy streak. Varkis wiped his dagger on a tattered rag, his grin returning despite the tension, a flash of white against his gray fur that stood out in the dim light. "Not bad for a noble wreck," he said, his laugh light but tinged with the strain of battle. Zephyr managed a weak, trembling smile, a flicker of happiness breaking through his exhaustion like a ray of sun, though sadness lingered in the shadow of his lost life among the nobles. "Thanks," he muttered, voice rough and strained, barely audible over the pounding in his ears. Varkis clapped his shoulder, a firm, reassuring gesture of camaraderie that warmed Zephyr's weary heart and eased the ache in his soul.
They tended their wounds with careful hands, Varkis binding Zephyr's cheek with a strip of cloth torn from his own cloak, the fabric rough and slightly damp against the raw cut. The slum stirred outside, beastmen whispering among themselves in low, guttural tones, some nodding in newfound respect for the outcast's fierce stand, their eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and awe. Hunger gnawed at Zephyr, a dull, persistent ache that sharpened with every movement, his body weak and trembling from days without proper sustenance, his stomach a hollow drum. Varkis shared a handful of wild berries, their deep purple skins glistening with morning dew, their tartness a brief, welcome relief that danced on his parched tongue and soothed his throat. "You've got fight," Varkis said, his amber eyes meeting Zephyr's with a steady gaze. "More than most here, even with no mana." Zephyr nodded, gratitude swelling in his chest, though a bitter envy bit at him for the mana he lacked, the power Darius wielded with such effortless grace back in the noble halls, a memory that stung like salt in a wound.
Night fell, the sky darkening to a velvet black studded with countless stars that glittered like distant, unreachable hopes, their light barely penetrating the slum's oppressive gloom. They sat by the lean-to's feeble fire, its weak, flickering flames casting dancing shadows on the patched walls of cloth and wood, the warmth a fleeting comfort against the cold that seeped into Zephyr's bones and settled in his joints. His mind drifted to Sylra, her pendant cool and solid against his chest, its runes faintly warm under his trembling fingers, a tangible link to her memory. Tears stung his eyes, hot and shameful, as her voice echoed, "You are enough," a memory that brought both solace and searing pain, a reminder of the love he'd lost. He wiped them away with a muddy hand, hiding his vulnerability from Varkis, anger flaring hot and fierce at Aldric's cold rejection, Darius' cruel spit that still haunted his dreams. "I'll make them pay," he vowed, voice low but resolute, a promise etched in the firelight that danced across his determined face.
Varkis sharpened his dagger, the scrape of metal against stone a steady, comforting rhythm that filled the silence between them. "Heard rumors," he said, his tone casual but laced with intrigue, his ears twitching as if listening to the wind. "Some old beastman, deep in the slum, talks of Runesmiths. Blades forged with mana and the spirits of heroes, they say. Might help you rise from this muck." Zephyr's heart leaped, hope sparking like a flame in his chest, a sudden burst of light in the darkness, though he kept his expression guarded, wary of false promises. "Where?" he asked, leaning forward, his voice eager despite his exhaustion. Varkis shrugged, his fur rippling with the motion, a casual gesture that belied the gravity of his words. "Deep slum. A dangerous place, full of shadows and hidden threats. We'll need strength, skill, and a bit of luck to get there." The idea fueled Zephyr's resolve, a ember glowing brighter amid the darkness, a path to power he yearned to walk, a chance to reclaim his destiny.
Dawn broke, golden light piercing the mist that clung to the shacks like a shroud, its rays illuminating the scars of the night's battle. Zephyr's wounds throbbed with a persistent ache, his shoulder stiff and his cheek tender beneath the makeshift bandage, but he rose, driven by a hardening determination that steeled his spine. Varkis handed him a crude spear, its tip jagged and uneven, carved from a broken branch and hardened in the fire, its weight unfamiliar but steadying in his grip. "Orcs won't forget," he warned, his voice low and serious, his eyes scanning the mist. "They'll come back with more, angrier than before." Zephyr gripped the weapon tighter, its rough texture grounding him, a tool to fight with rather than flee, a symbol of his growing resolve. Envy gnawed at him again, a bitter taste lingering on his tongue for the nobles' magic, the aura that danced in Darius' hands with such effortless grace, but he pushed it down, focusing on the strength he could forge through struggle.
A rustle sounded beyond the lean-to, a soft but ominous sound that set Varkis' ears twitching, his body tensing like a coiled spring. Zephyr raised the spear, muscles aching with the effort, his breath shallow and quick. The flap of patched cloth lifted, revealing a fox-kin girl, her silver hair tangled and matted with dirt and blood, her emerald eyes wide with terror that reflected the morning light. Blood stained her slender arm, a crimson streak against her pale fur, and she clutched it with a trembling hand, her delicate fingers trembling with pain. "Help," she whispered, her voice a fragile plea that cut through the silence, her form swaying as if on the verge of collapse. Behind her, orc shouts echoed through the mist, growing louder with each heartbeat, a menacing chorus that promised violence. Zephyr's heart raced, anxiety surging like a tidal wave as he exchanged a glance with Varkis, a silent agreement passing between them. They stepped out, the girl between them, her slight frame a fragile shield, facing the advancing threat. The orcs burst into view, three strong, their axes raised and eyes burning with vengeance, their green skin slick with sweat. The slum braced for chaos, the air thick with tension and the scent of blood, leaving readers on edge for the next clash.