As long as I can remember, the scent of death and countryside manure has clung to the twin isles of Irinclad.
It's a strange thing to call a place like that home—but we were happy.
I grew up in a town known for its animal byproducts, where men rode mammoths through dusty streets and tried their luck with passing women. Life was simple. Peaceful, even. I thought I was blessed to be born there.
The kind of place where everyone knew your name—and your mistakes.
My name is Erik.
And if you're reading this, it means one of two things:
either you are my blood… or I am already dead.
If that is the case, then you deserve to know how it began.
Not with war. Not with death.
But with the two of us—young, stupid, and certain we would live forever.
I was twenty-two the first time I saw him lose a fight.
"You're getting slow," I told him, spitting blood into the dirt.
The copper taste sat heavy on my tongue, mixing with dust and sweat.
He laughed like it didn't matter. Like nothing ever would.
"Or maybe," he said, stepping toward me again, "you're finally catching up."
"Or maybe you're too focused on that young lassie, Freya," I shot back, grinning through the blood in my teeth.
He barked a laugh, sharp and easy. "Oh please—you're jealous and you know it."
We circled each other in the dirt, boots grinding into the same ring we'd fought in a hundred times before. The ground there had been packed hard over the years, stained with sweat, spit, and the occasional blood—most of it mine.
Malek moved like he always did—loose, confident, like the world bent just slightly around him.
Malek had always been faster than me. Stronger, too—though I'd never admit that to his face. Being the chieftain's son had nothing to do with it. He would've been the best fighter in Irinclad either way.
I swung first.
He slipped it like he always did.
"Still too slow," he said.
"Still talking too much," I muttered, lunging again.
This time I clipped him—barely. Enough to turn his shoulder.
His grin widened.
"Better."
Behind us, the village carried on like it always did. Mammoths groaned as they were led through the streets, their massive feet shaking the ground with each step. Traders shouted over one another in half a dozen languages, arguing over coin and cloth and things none of us really needed. The smell of salt from the sea mixed with livestock and smoke, thick enough to taste.
It wasn't much of a town—but it was ours.
Outsiders never understood that. They saw dirt roads and animal pens and thought us simple. Weak.
They learned quickly.
Especially when they met his father.
The chieftain didn't need to raise his voice to command a room. A single look from him—tiger skin draped over his shoulder, arms like carved stone—and even the boldest trader remembered their place.
Malek never cared much for that reputation.
Me?
I relied on it more than I'd like to admit.
"Malek!"
The shout cut through the noise of the village.
We both turned.
One of the handlers had lost control of a mammoth near the lower road. The beast thrashed its head, tusks swinging wide as people scattered. A cart overturned with a crack of wood, spilling goods into the street.
A boy—too slow—froze in the dirt.
"Don't," I started.
Malek was already moving.
"Malek!" I shouted again, but he didn't even look back.
He ran straight at it.
Not around it. Not away.
At it.
"MOVE!" he shouted at the boy.
My stomach dropped.
Not because he might fail.
Because he never thought he could.
The kid didn't move.
The mammoth roared, a deep, thunderous sound that seemed to shake the air itself.
My legs moved before my mind caught up—I followed him, cursing under my breath.
Malek reached the boy first. He grabbed him by the arm and hurled him aside just as the mammoth's tusk tore through the space where they had been standing.
Too close.
Way too close.
The ground trembled beneath us as the beast charged past, its ropes dragging and snapping against anything they caught.
"Malek, fall back!" I shouted.
He didn't.
Of course he didn't.
He never does.
The handler was still in the dirt.
Bleeding.
Trying to crawl.
Malek saw him.
That was enough.
"No," I said under my breath. "No, don't—"
He went for him anyway.
I caught up just as Malek dropped to one knee, grabbing the man under the arms.
"Help me!" he barked.
"Idiot," I muttered, but I was already there.
Together, we dragged the handler back as the mammoth slammed into a cart behind us, splintering wood into the air. A wheel spun past my head. Someone screamed.
For a moment, it felt like the whole world had tilted.
Then men rushed in with spears and ropes, shouting commands, surrounding the beast. It fought them—gods, it fought—but eventually they forced it down, binding it again with practiced hands.
The chaos settled.
Slowly.
Dust hung in the air, drifting like fog.
"You're an idiot."
I turned.
Freya stood a few paces away, arms crossed, eyes locked on Malek.
Not scared.
Angry.
Her dark hair was pulled back tight, not a strand out of place despite the chaos. She always looked like she belonged exactly where she stood—no matter where that was.
"You could've been killed."
Malek brushed dirt from his arms like it was nothing. "But I wasn't."
"One day that won't be enough."
"It worked."
"That's not the same thing."
For just a second, something passed between them—something quieter than the argument. Then Malek smiled, and it was gone.
Torvin pushed through the crowd, laughing as he grabbed Malek by the shoulders hard enough to jolt him.
"I thought you were dead!"
"You sound disappointed," Malek said.
"A little," Torvin admitted. "You still owe me coin."
Malek grinned. "Then I guess I had to live."
He did, in fact, owe him coin.
Malek had a habit of making promises like they didn't cost anything—usually right before they did.
This one had started with a bet about whether he could ride one of the younger mammoths bareback through the lower road without getting thrown.
He had done it.
Just not the way he'd promised.
By the end of it, a drying rack was gone, a cart had been reduced to splinters, and half of old Brenna's fence had been flattened like it had never stood at all.
Torvin called that a loss.
Malek called it a technical victory.
They were still arguing about it.
That was Malek.
It didn't matter who it was.
A child. A stranger. One of us.
If someone was in danger, he moved.
No hesitation. No thought for himself.
I used to think that was what made him strong.
I didn't understand what it would cost him.
Malek laughed with the others like nothing had happened.
Like it never would.
The boy he had saved sat in the dirt where he'd fallen.
Too quiet.
Too still.
I walked over, crouching in front of him.
"You alright?"
He didn't answer.
Didn't blink.
Just stared past me.
At something that wasn't there.
Or maybe something only he could see.
And for the first time that day—
something didn't feel right.