The community that had once consisted of 68 inhabitants had now dwindled to only 31. When they reached the middle of the pass, the village chief, Urag e'Zogtar, spoke:
"We only have a few options left."
The villagers fell silent. Not from shock, nor from fear. It was simply realization and acceptance. The children, who still could not hold back their emotions, began to cry. Their parents stayed by their side, holding their hands. The children who had lost their parents during the incident still had members of the community caring for them.
"I know a place where we can start over."
A breath escaped the adults' lungs, as if the crushing weight of reality had vanished for a brief moment.
"It lies northwest of here. I know it will be harder to grow crops there."
Everyone already knew what weighed on his heart but refused to come out.
"However… we no longer have to feed as many Orcs." "Do we have suitable clothing for the new climate?" asked a worried Orc woman whose name appeared to be Morgra i'Veshka. "We don't have enough for everyone here. We'll equip the children first, then the sick and the weak."
It was an unspoken law that it is the duty of the strong and powerful to protect and help the weak and less powerful.
This law holds great importance in this godless world.
"We'll gather our savings and spend them on better clothing at the next merchant."
The unity of this village was truly… remarkable.
The group spent the rest of the day walking along the mountain range toward the northwest.
The sun was now slowly setting, and once again the world turned orange-gold for a fleeting moment. The fire burned calmly at the center of the scene, casting a pulsing glow across the dusty ground. The three wagons they had barely managed to bring with them stood around it in a wide circle, their dark silhouettes half swallowed by shadow and half by flickering light. The wooden wheels were still, the horses unharnessed and lying together in exhaustion. The flames occasionally rose higher, bathing the wagons in golden reflections for a moment before they sank back into darkness. Between the wagons, the night gathered heavily and silently while the fire continued to glow without rest.
Samuel was laid down near the wagon by Gustov.
The adult Orcs gathered around the fire and began cooking and roasting while speaking about the most mundane things.
"Margot, can you get the meat from the supplies?" asked a male Orc. "I can do that."
Margot walked around the wagon. Her hands brushed over the canvas cover. The tarp was covered in numerous patches and had a yellowish-brown tint that clearly revealed the fabric's age.
"Perfect, thank you very much!" the male Orc called after her.
Margot's lips formed a small smirk before it quickly faded again. She pulled aside the wagon curtains and searched for the crate containing the meat. She knew that if they didn't roast it, it would spoil within a few days.
"They should be somewhere around here, right?" Margot wondered as she searched through one box after another.
Eventually, she found the wooden crate containing the meat.
Taking a deep breath, she lowered herself to her knees and wrapped her arms around the box. The meat inside shifted like one cold, solid body. For a moment she believed the weight would tear her arms from their sockets, until her grip steadied and she planted herself firmly on her feet.
The weight itself, however, was not the problem. Everyone was exhausted by now, Margot included. She carried the meat to the others by the fire, and they began preparing the meal.
Yet the atmosphere was not as peaceful as it appeared. Every gaze was fixed on the human boy. They all knew exactly what his kind was capable of. But they also knew that one should not judge someone by their origin or appearance.
The air was pleasant, carrying the aroma of meat and vegetables. By now the sun had fully set. A few smaller campfires were built to keep everyone warm.
Meanwhile, Gustov sat beside the boy, waiting for him to wake up.
Samuel's body lay atop a small pile of hay. Small movements became larger until he finally awoke. He looked around and saw only unfamiliar faces surrounding him. His heart began to race.
Gustov: "Looks like you finally woke up too. Don't worry, we won't ask where you came from or what happened."
Samuel's breathing seemed to respond immediately, relaxing into deeper, slower breaths. He felt safe.
grumble~grumble
His stomach interrupted the moment.
Gustov seemed amused: "Hahaha, seems like you're hungry. You're lucky — the food was just finished."
One by one, everyone gathered around the large fire whose flames cast dancing shadows across their faces. Plates were passed around, loaded with steaming pieces of a meat-like dish and strange vegetables Samuel didn't recognize.
A place in the circle was made for him as well. He sat down beside Gustov and hesitantly reached for the food.
But the moment the aroma touched his tongue, a warmth flowed through him that went deeper than mere satisfaction. His heart felt light, almost weightless, and for a fleeting moment it seemed as though every worry had fallen away. It was more than enjoyment — it was almost euphoria.
He savored every moment.
Gustov: "Looks like you were really hungry, haha."
He looked directly at Samuel. His eyes were filled with kindness.
Samuel: "The food is really good… uhm, what should I call you?" "My name is Gustov g'Rock." "Thank you, Gustov. My name is Samuel."
Samuel returned the smile.
The circle slowly began to dissolve as one after another finished their meal and rose from the fire. Voices faded into the night while the first had already disappeared into the darkness to sleep. Yet most remained outside; it was hard to fall asleep.
A group of children gathered around a smaller fire where an older Orc also sat.
"Gustov, what's happening over there?"
Gustov looked toward the older Orc by the fire Samuel pointed at.
"Ah, the old man's name is Vorzak h'Kaelor. Once every three days, the village children gather to listen to his stories. You're welcome to join them."
Samuel approached the group, though he kept a certain distance.
"Move closer to the fire, children."
The old storyteller's voice was rough like dry bark. The wind swept through the dark fir trees, and above them stretched a sky filled with cold stars. No one spoke a word. Even the horses by the wagons had fallen silent.
The old man pulled his heavy blanket tighter around his shoulders and stared into the flames for a long time before speaking again.
"There are stories older than kings. Older than cities of stone. Older even than the sun itself. This… is the oldest of them all."
The embers cracked softly.
"In the beginning, nothing existed."
He slowly raised his hand.
"No mountains. No seas. No light. No darkness. Not even time. There was only the First God."
The children stared at him wide-eyed.
"No one knows his name. Some believe no mortal mouth could speak it without breaking apart. Others say he never possessed one. For names require boundaries — and the First God had none."
The wind grew stronger.
"He was alone."
The word hung heavily between them.
"For unimaginable ages he was alone. Aeons passed like breaths. But even a god cannot endure emptiness forever. And so, from his own will, he created two beings."
The old man took a stick and drew two lines in the dirt.
"The first he called A."
He tapped the line on the left.
"The second, X."
His finger moved to the other side.
"But throughout the ages, humans gave them many names. Alpha and Omega. Dawn and Abyss. Salvation and Ruin. Hope and Hunger."
The flames cast dancing shadows over the children's faces.
"A was warm like the first sunlight. Wherever his footsteps touched the empty ground, life, compassion, and peace emerged. Rivers began to flow. Forests grew. Hearts learned love."
The old man paused.
"But X…"
The wind suddenly howled between the wagons.
"…X brought the other side."
The children huddled closer together.
"He gifted the world wrath. Greed. Envy. Disease. He taught mankind fear of the darkness and the desire for power."
The old man slowly gazed into the night.
"But understand this well: neither of them was truly evil. Neither truly good. For the First God had not created them to bring peace."
He struck the stick hard into the earth.
"He created them for war."
The horses snorted nervously.
"Since the first moment of their existence, A and X have fought one another. Eternally. Without end. Whenever a child is born somewhere, their hands are already struggling over its fate. When a king begins a war or a stranger gives bread to the hungry — it is merely another blow in their endless conflict."
The flames burned lower.
"And from this struggle… something emerged that should never have existed."
Now the old man spoke more quietly.
"While A and X battled one another, light and darkness intertwined. Not for long. Only for a single heartbeat of eternity."
He looked directly into the children's eyes.
"But that was enough."
A spark rose into the night.
"Where their powers collided, a third being was born."
The old man's voice now sounded almost like a whisper.
"It had no name."
No one moved anymore.
"Not because it had been forgotten… but because no one dared give it one."
The forest itself seemed to have fallen silent.
"For names mean order. They give things a place in the world. But this being had no place."
The old man pointed toward the stars.
"It belonged neither to A nor to X. Neither to the light nor to the darkness. And when the First God saw it… something happened that had never happened before."
He remained silent long enough that even the fire itself seemed to crackle more quietly.
"The First God felt neither fear nor pity toward it."
Some of the children held their breath.
"No one knows why. Perhaps he saw in the being the end of his creation. Perhaps something else."
The old man lowered his head.
"In the end, he decided not to kill it."
The children stared at him.
"Some believe the First God feared it. Others think the Nameless One is necessary for the world, even if no one understands its purpose."
Slowly, he ran his fingers across the grain of his wooden staff.
"So the First God dragged the nameless being into the darkness of the eternal cosmos. Beyond all the stars, he sealed the being away, where neither man nor god should ever tread."
The wind carried ash through the night.
"But before he banished it, he took away its eight senses."
The old man raised one finger.
"Sight."
Another.
"Hearing."
Another.
"Smell."
Then he continued.
"Taste. Touch."
The children and Samuel listened intently to his voice.
The old man lowered his hand.
"These five senses the First God gave to five lesser deities. Since then, they have watched over mankind. Through them you can see, hear, and feel. Through them you can walk without falling, and even with closed eyes still find your hands."
The flames cast golden light over his aged face.
"But sometimes…"
He now spoke more slowly.
"…sometimes one of these deities touches a mortal with its blessing."
The children immediately became attentive.
"Then begins one of the five paths of the other world."
The old man drew eight lines in a circle around the embers.
"Those who walk the Path of Sight perceive movement in the darkness long before others notice it. Some can see the truth in the eyes of a liar."
He pointed to the next line.
"Those on the Path of Hearing can hear footsteps from miles away or listen to voices even the wind has forgotten."
The third line.
"The Path of Smell allows one to sense disease, fear, or blood."
The fourth.
"The Path of Taste can detect poison from a single drop."
Then he continued:
"The Path of Touch feels even the faintest tremors in stone and earth. And if one ascends the ranks of the path, one may eventually create fire from nothing."
The children sat motionless.
"But every blessing has its price."
The old man looked seriously around the circle.
"For the farther a person walks upon one of the eight paths, the closer they come to the other world — that world behind what the First God never wished to be found."
The flames crackled dully.
"And some believe the senses of the deities are not merely gifts…"
He slowly raised his head.
"…but fragments of the Nameless One itself."
No one spoke anymore.
Far out in the forest, a single crack suddenly echoed.
The old man smiled faintly.
"That," he said quietly, "is why you should never follow a voice at night that only you can hear."