The first days at the treeline had been tense. Half the village eyed Simon and Schalezusk with suspicion, calling them remnants of Bloodtusk warmongers. Others, the realists, whispered in hushed tones that pride wouldn't fill stomachs. When the children cried at night from hunger, their wails cutting through the cold air, it was the realists who finally stepped forward.

One evening, three orcs approached the brothers' campfire with hesitant steps. Behind them others followed, carrying empty baskets and hollow eyes that spoke of gnawing starvation.

"You two… you have food, don't you?" one asked, his voice thick with shame.

Simon nodded calmly. "We do. And it's yours, if you'll share shelter with us."

The night the famine broke, the entire village gathered at the center square. Smoke curled from great iron pots and clay cauldrons, filled for the first time in weeks with more than thin porridge. Simon and Schalezusk had opened Karl's supplies, sharing sacks of grain and bundles of dried meat. The smell of stew and roasting meat drifted through the night air, heavy and irresistible, a promise of warmth and life they had forgotten.

At first, only the children had approached. Small hands reached forward timidly, and Simon himself ladled the first bowls. When the little ones ate, slurping loudly with relief, the mothers came next, tears in their eyes. The cautious fathers and wary warriors followed, their hunger finally overcoming their distrust.

And finally, the Proud Ones.

Among them was Kroth, the very orc who had first spat at the brothers in the fields. He stood with arms crossed, jaw tight, glaring at the bubbling pots. His stomach betrayed him with an audible growl, a sound of profound weakness he could not hide.

"You don't have to eat," one of the Pragmatic Ones muttered smugly as he stirred his stew. "No one will force pride down your throat."

A ripple of laughter spread through the pragmatists, emboldened by their full bellies and the victory of survival over stubbornness. Kroth's fists clenched, and the other Proud Ones shifted uncomfortably. Hunger gnawed at their resolve, and the smell was an enemy they could not resist. Yet the mockery stung almost as much as the famine.

"Enough," Elder Skrall's voice cut through the gathering. His cane tapped against the stones as he stepped forward. His one good eye glared at both sides. "Mockery will not fill your bowls. Silence, all of you."

The pragmatists quieted. Kroth and his group lowered their heads, shame flushing their faces. They took bowls without a word, and for the first time in many days, they ate.

The stew passed hand to hand, bowls scraped clean and refilled. Orcs who had not spoken in weeks murmured softly to one another as warmth spread through their bellies. Even laughter began to rise from the children, running in circles around the fire. For one night, pride and suspicion were set aside. For one night, the Grayhorn tribe feasted together.

Simon sat with his bowl, quietly satisfied. Schalezusk, chewing on roasted meat, muttered to him, "They eat our food, yet still glare like wolves. If this is gratitude, I'd rather—"

Simon cut him off with a shake of his head. "Patience, brother. They are not our enemies. Hunger makes fools of everyone."

Schalezusk snorted but said no more, watching the flames dance against the night sky. The semi-feast carried on late into the night. Though the divide in the tribe remained, for a brief time, it felt as though the famine had ended more than hunger. It had ended silence.

The Grayhorn village gathered at dawn, every soul pressed into the square. The war drum boomed once, twice, thrice, and all talk fell silent. Simon and Schalezusk were led to kneel before the council, the weight of hundreds of eyes bearing down on them.

Elder Skrall emerged, holding a clay bowl filled with a black, gleaming liquid that caught the morning light like tar. It was a substance of pure, viscous darkness, a symbol of the deepest, most ancient earth. He raised it for all to see.

"These two," Skrall began, his voice carrying across the crowd, "came to us as Bloodtusk. Carrion dogs of the fortress, stained in sin. But here, they must become Grayhorn — or be cast out."

The crowd stirred. Spat curses hissed through the air.

"Unclean!" one shouted.

"They'll bring Venethra's wrath on us!" barked another, his voice laced with venom.

"They should burn with the rest of their kin!"

Skrall slammed his cane on the ground, silencing them. "They will be judged. By sweat, by fire, and by the goddess."

He dipped his fingers into the black liquid and smeared it across Simon's chest, then Schalezusk's shoulder. The substance clung, thick and heavy, staining their skin with a mark that seemed to sink into their very pores. The crowd muttered again, many sneering.

"It suits them," a woman growled. "The stain of Bloodtusk made plain for all to see."

Elder Skrall ignored the jeers, his voice steady. "For thirty suns, they will live as Grayhorn live. They will toil, they will bleed, they will serve. At the end of thirty suns, if they are not broken, the stain will be burned away, and they will belong to us. If they falter, they will leave, and never return."

The chanting began — deep, harsh voices of the council — and the crowd followed. They cried out to Venethra, the fire goddess, to cleanse the unclean. To watch them. To punish them if they strayed. Schalezusk's fists clenched, trembling with anger. He was on the edge of spitting back, of roaring that they were no Bloodtusks. But Simon's hand pressed firmly on his arm. A silent shake of the head. Patience. Not now.

The ritual ended with the drum's final beat. The brothers rose, marked and shamed, and the crowd parted in cold silence.

Later, as they walked away, Simon turned to Skrall. "Elder… what is this black liquid you marked us with?"

Skrall's one good eye glinted. "It is Venethra's gift. East of here lies the Black Lake, where the earth bleeds this liquid. When the sun is high, the lake calls forth Venethra, the fire goddess. With a single flame, she answers, burning away sin for those who kneel in her light." The tale was ancient, a fundamental pillar of their faith.

"And the Bloodtusk?" Simon pressed quietly.

Skrall's face hardened. "They never bowed. Never sought her flame. They chose war and slaughter, not fire and cleansing. That is why we call them cursed. Why even gryphons and beastkin shun the lake, but we remain. The Black Lake makes us pure. It makes us Grayhorn."

Simon touched the oily mark smeared across his chest. Around him, villagers still stared, some with disgust, some with pity. It was no longer just a question of food or politics. Their very souls were on trial.

Two suns passed since the marking.

Simon rose each morning with the farmers, his broad back bent under the same toil as theirs. He trudged through the mud, carrying water jars on his shoulders, spreading grain seed with careful patience. His hands blistered from the plow, his palms raw. Yet he never complained. He greeted every orc who scowled at him with a nod, every insult with silence.

Some scoffed that he was trying too hard. Others muttered that perhaps even a Bloodtusk could sweat like a Grayhorn. None dared deny that the fields looked greener with his labor.

Schalezusk, though, found no welcome there. His one arm made him clumsy with tools. When he dropped a bucket or lagged in planting rows, the whispers grew louder.

"Useless.""Bloodtusk filth can't even sow seed.""Venethra's fire will burn him out in the end."

By the third morning, Schalezusk had had enough. Slinging the musket across his back, he left the village paths, heading for the woods.

A voice rang out behind him. "Oi! Where are you slinking off to, outsider?"

He turned. Five young hunters stood with spears and crude bows in hand. One of them, broad-shouldered and sharp-tongued, squinted at him with a sneer. "Going to gnaw bones raw like your Bloodtusk kin?"

Schalezusk's lip curled. "I'm hunting. And when I'm done, I'll roast it on fire. Maybe share, if you stop barking."

The hunters barked with laughter. One jabbed his spear toward the musket. "With that stick? You'll starve before you scratch a rat."

Schalezusk's eye narrowed, but he didn't rise to the bait. "Follow, if you've got nothing better to do."

They did.

Hours later, in the hushed stillness of the forest, a buck appeared between the trees. The hunters raised bows, drawing back their strings. Schalezusk lifted the musket instead.

"What are you doing?" one whispered. "You'll scare it with your stick-waving."

Schalezusk ignored him. He steadied his aim, exhaled, and pulled the trigger.

The forest exploded with thunder. The hunters staggered back, ears ringing. Birds scattered from the trees. The buck collapsed instantly, blood bubbling from its pierced lungs.

For a moment, silence.

Then chaos.

"What in the abyss was that?!""Did the sky split?!""No — the stick! The stick killed it!"

Schalezusk knelt calmly, reloading with slow, deliberate motions. Powder, ball, ramrod, prime. He glanced at their wide-eyed faces.

"This," he said, patting the musket's stock, "kills fast and clean. Not a stick. A boomstick."

They crowded him, awe written on their faces, peppering him with questions.

"Let me try!""Does it always roar like that?""How far can it kill?"

Schalezusk held the musket tight. "This isn't a toy. Handle it wrong and it kills you, not the prey."

He wanted to send them away. To hoard the gift. But Simon's words echoed in his mind: If you want their trust, you must also give yours.

With a sigh, he loosened his grip. "Fine. One at a time. Watch first. Learn before you touch."

They obeyed, captivated, as he fired again. Another rabbit fell. This time, the hunters didn't flinch at the thunder. They grinned. Orcs, after all, were quick to love any weapon that roared.

By the time they returned, the hunting party carried more game than the village had seen in weeks — rabbits, a doe, and even a kama bull dragged on poles. The hunters spoke over one another, retelling the story, miming the thunder-crack, laughing like pups.

That night, the village feasted again. Many still spat and whispered against the brothers, but others now looked at Schalezusk with wary curiosity. The thunder-stick had spoken louder than their prejudice.

For the first time, the one-armed warrior was not scorned. He was sought out.

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.