Samuel had barely slept. The night had been cold, but that was far from the worst part anymore. At some point the ground beneath him had started to feel like stone, his clothes clung unpleasantly to his skin, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw the smoke rising behind the mountains again. Even now it still hung there above them. Dark. Heavy. Like a wound in the sky.
Samuel sat between the remains of his small campfire and stared silently into the distance. The wind swept across the wide fields, carrying the smell of burnt earth with it. Not strong. Not yet. But clear enough that it could not be ignored.
Something had happened beyond those mountains. Maybe people. Maybe a city. Maybe answers. Or maybe just another nightmare.
He did not know why that single thought kept driving him forward. Perhaps because loneliness had become worse than fear by now. For days he had seen nothing but forests, fog, dead silence, and this strange landscape that seemed beautiful and wrong at the same time.
But back there… there was life.
And life meant hope.
Samuel slowly stood up.
His body protested immediately. Pain shot through his legs and back. The small wounds on his arms had hardened overnight and pulled uncomfortably with every movement.
Still, he kept going.
The mountains looked even more massive up close. Dark stone rose from the earth like ancient walls, swallowing parts of the morning light itself. The path through the pass was narrow and filled with loose rubble. Old tracks marked the ground. Hoofprints. Wagon wheels. Worn stone surfaces.
People traveled through here.
Or creatures.
The wind rushed through the narrow cracks in the rocks and created a deep howling sound that sometimes almost resembled voices.
Samuel unconsciously raised his shoulders and kept walking.
With every step, the smell grew stronger.
Not just smoke.
Wheat. Earth. Wood. Life.
And then the pass opened.
Samuel stopped abruptly.
Below the mountains lay a village. It was not large. Maybe thirty or forty houses built from dark wood and gray stone. Small paths ran between the buildings, some barely wide enough for a single person. Beyond them stretched vast fields of golden wheat that moved in the wind like one enormous sea.
For a moment, Samuel completely forgot to breathe.
Orcs.
At least he thought they were Orcs.
Large figures with powerful bodies worked among the fields. Some carried heavy tools across their shoulders, others tied bundles of wheat together or repaired small wooden carts. And huge tusks protruded from their mouths.
Yet nothing about them resembled the monsters from stories.
No savage screams. No brutality. No primitive ferocity.
Just villagers.
Or beings who simply lived.
An older Orc sat in front of a house carving small wooden figures. Two children ran laughing along a dirt path until a woman called them back with an annoyed voice. Near the mountain, several miners emerged from a dark tunnel. Their clothes were dusty, their movements heavy with exhaustion.
The village looked poor.
But peaceful.
Samuel crouched behind a large rock at the edge of the pass and silently watched the scene.
Something about it hurt.
Maybe because the village reminded him of home. Not directly of his own world, but of that feeling of normality. Of days that were predictable. Of people who laughed, worked, argued, and later sat down to eat together again.
A life.
The village was alive.
Further below, the scent of bread drifted through the air. An Orc woman placed fresh loaves onto a small wooden board in front of her house. Several children immediately ran toward her. A large Orc stood near a well, pulling water upward. His arms were covered in old scars, his clothes patched countless times.
Even so, he moved with a strange calmness.
Heavy. Slow.
Like someone who had learned never to waste energy.
Gustov g'Rock.
Samuel did not know his name yet. But even from a distance, he looked like someone who had lost much.
The morning passed quietly.
People worked. Children played. Tools clattered. Somewhere, someone laughed briefly.
And that was exactly why many of them did not notice the sound at first.
Hooves.
Distant. Rhythmic. Controlled.
Not from the direction of the mountains.
From the open plains behind the village.
Samuel immediately noticed the atmosphere changing. Not suddenly. Slowly. Like a shadow falling across warm light.
Several Orcs froze in the middle of their movements. Conversations fell silent. Children were pulled closer to the houses. Not in panic.
Automatically.
As though their bodies had heard that sound too many times before.
Then the riders appeared.
Two black horses moved calmly along the village's main road. Their hooves crushed the wheat beneath them without the riders attempting to avoid it. The men wore long dark coats with silver symbols embroidered along the sleeves. Clean fabric. Well-kept gloves. Metal insignias on their shoulders.
Mages.
Samuel instantly felt that something was wrong.
Not because of their clothing.
Because of their calmness.
The two men did not ride like soldiers. Not like warriors.
But like officials.
Men carrying out an ordinary assignment.
The horses stopped in the middle of the village. Neither mage dismounted. The older one slowly pulled out a scroll and broke the red seal.
Then he began to read.
His voice was calm. Clear. Almost bored.
"In the name of the State of Aeterweite, this territory is hereby placed under immediate control of the State Resource Administration."
Silence.
The wind continued to move through the wheat.
"The construction of additional magical energy condensers has been approved by the Central Council. The existing village territory will therefore be evacuated and restructured."
Samuel was too far away to hear the words clearly.
But the faces said enough.
Several Orcs had already lowered their eyes.
The mage continued reading.
"The resident population is ordered to vacate the territory by sunset. All property claims lose their validity upon this declaration."
A small child began to cry softly. The mother immediately covered his mouth.
The older mage rolled up the scroll.
No one answered.
Not immediately.
Because the worst thing was not fear.
It was familiarity.
An older Orc finally stepped forward slowly. His back was bent from age and hard labor.
"These are our fields."
The mage looked at him.
Not cruelly.
Just empty.
"Not anymore." "Our families have lived here for generations." "Then there has been sufficient time to prepare."
The words struck harder because they were spoken without any emotion at all.
Samuel suddenly noticed that some Orcs had already started packing bags and tools.
Before anything had even happened.
They already knew how conversations like this ended.
The younger mage let his gaze wander across the houses.
"Resistance during previous relocations has led to unnecessary losses."
Losses.
As if he were speaking about damaged goods.
Not lives.
A young Orc suddenly stepped out from the crowd. Coal dust still clung to his clothes. Probably a miner. His hands trembled with rage.
"You take everything from us."
The younger mage sighed quietly.
Not annoyed.
Tired.
As though he had heard those words a hundred times before.
"This territory will be used more efficiently." "People like you call this efficiency?!"
The air changed.
Even Samuel could feel it up among the rocks.
Something invisible suddenly tightened over the village.
The mage slowly raised his hand.
A faint light appeared between his fingers.
Several Orcs instantly stepped backward.
Reflexively.
The young miner remained standing.
"We are liv—"
A dull impact tore through the village.
The Orc's body was hurled through the air and slammed into a wooden cart. Wood splintered apart.
Then silence.
The young Orc's mother cried out.
Not loudly.
Too broken for that.
The mage did not even react.
"Resistance confirmed."
The older one slightly lifted his hand.
A single spark drifted from his fingers.
Small.
Almost harmless.
It floated slowly through the air and landed in the wheat.
For a brief moment, nothing happened.
Then the field began to burn.
The fire spread frighteningly fast. The dry wheat ignited immediately. Orange light devoured the fields and carried onward by the wind.
Panic erupted.
People screamed. Children were grabbed. Tools hit the ground. A woman tried to draw water from a barrel, but more sparks were already raining onto the houses.
The mages barely moved their hands.
Like people merely operating a machine.
One roof caught fire.
Then another.
Black smoke rose between the buildings.
Samuel could smell it all the way up at the pass now.
Burning wood.
Burning harvest.
Burning life.
A small Orc boy suddenly stood in the middle of the road screaming for his mother.
The younger mage glanced toward him.
Long enough to make a decision.
His hand moved slightly.
The child's body burst into flames.
The boy collapsed to the ground in agony. His screams cut through the fire.
Then silence.
His mother reached him seconds later.
Her scream was muffled so it would not draw attention.
Yet it carried a force louder than anything that could ever have echoed through the world.
Many more Orcs followed the boy.
Samuel could not move.
He could only watch.
And the worst part was not the grotesque violence.
It was the reaction of the others.
No one attacked the mages.
No one truly fought back.
Because they knew they would lose.
Because this was not the first time.
An old Orc silently began loading sacks onto a cart while his house burned behind him. A woman gathered her children together without looking back even once.
The fear had grown old.
Too old for panic.
Gustov still stood near the well.
His gaze rested on the burning fields. The dead. The mages.
His fists had clenched so tightly that blood ran from small cracks in his fingers.
Yet even now he did not attack.
Not out of cowardice.
But because children stood beside him.
And the dead could not protect families.
A small Orc tugged at his sleeve.
"Why does this keep happening…?"
Gustov remained silent for several seconds.
Then he answered quietly:
"Because they believe our lives are worth less."
The boy lowered his head.
The fire continued to spread.
And slowly, the village began to die.
The sun already hung low when the first groups left the village.
Smoke hung heavily over the fields. Black ash drifted slowly from the sky like diseased snow.
No one looked back for long.
The Orcs moved silently through the mountain pass. Elderly Orcs were supported. Children carried. Small carts creaked over the rocky ground.
Behind them, their home burned.
And ahead of them lay nothing certain.
Only the hope of being less unwanted somewhere else.
The pass was narrow. Cold wind swept between the rocks. Some Orcs coughed from the smoke. Others simply kept walking without paying attention to their surroundings anymore.
Exhaustion had dulled their faces.
An older woman quietly murmured names to herself.
The same ones again and again.
Perhaps the dead.
Perhaps people she had lost.
Gustov walked near the back of the group. A heavy hammer hung across his back together with a sack full of mining tools. Beside him walked a small boy who repeatedly tried not to cry.
"Are we there yet?" "No."
Not cruel.
Just honest.
Then Gustov suddenly stopped.
Something lay between the stones at the edge of the pass.
The others slowly continued past him.
Gustov stepped closer.
At first he thought it was an animal.
Too small. Too thin.
But then he saw fabric.
Blood.
Hair.
Human.
The Orc slowly knelt down.
A boy lay between the rocks.
Maybe fourteen years old.
His body was covered in scratches and dried blood. His clothing was torn and strangely made. Not like clothing from this world.
The boy breathed weakly.
But he was alive.
Gustov looked at him silently.
The small Orc beside him nervously tugged at his sleeve.
"Is he dead?"
Gustov did not answer immediately.
Then he slowly shook his head.
Samuel shifted slightly in his sleep.
A quiet sound escaped his lips.
Almost like a wish.
Gustov lifted him up and carried him over his shoulder.
Then he silently continued walking.
The wind blew cold through the pass.
Behind them, smoke still rose into the sky.
And somewhere behind them…
the village was still burning.