The skies above the Tharnak tribe loomed with a solemn, iron-hardened gray, as though the heavens themselves bore witness to the forging of war-born warriors below. Clouds churned and growled, casting jagged shadows across the stone ridges and crude battlements of the outer tribal camp. Storm-light bled through gaps in the thunderheads, touching the weathered palisades of bone and the frayed banners that whipped and snapped in the harsh wind, each one stained with faded glory and promises of violence.
In the heart of the encampment, surrounded by those walls of bone wood and tattered standards, lay the combat pit—a primitive sunken arena, gouged deep into the earth and ringed with jagged stakes. Dried blood darkened the packed soil, a testament to countless lessons taught through pain. The air reeked of sweat, iron, and dried sinew, mingling with the earthy scent of coming rain and the smoke from distant cooking fires.
Here, a brutal rite unfolded.
Young orcs—barely past their fifth winter yet already molded by the ruthless cadence of survival—circled one another with wary, predatory instinct. Their bare chests heaved, mapped in purple-black bruises and shallow cuts. Their growls were not for performance; these were not games. These were the earliest declarations of power, the first steps in a lifelong dance with dominance and death.
Among them stood Sarkan.
Smaller than most but not diminished. His compact frame held the taut promise of a drawn bowstring, his posture unnaturally still while others shifted their weight constantly. His eyes—one molten red like the heart of a forge, the other a piercing silver like moonlight on water—seemed to observe from some impossible vantage, seeing not just the present moment but the patterns within it. Two horns curved from his head: the left beneath the skin, the right just breaking through, like a secret still unfolding. Even at this age, he unsettled the others—not because he was monstrous, but because he seemed to belong to something else, something beyond their understanding.
"Look at him, standing there like he's thinking instead of fighting," a boy hissed from the ring's edge, loud enough for Sarkan to hear. "That's not how orcs fight."
"He doesn't even flinch like a real orc," another added, voice cracking with disdain.
The combat master—a scarred veteran with a missing eye and ritual brands covering his arms—circled the pit's edge with a gnarled staff, observing. His gaze lingered on Sarkan longer than the others, a calculation in his remaining eye.
"Chief's son or not, he's soft. Strange-blooded," muttered a third boy, spitting into the dirt.
The insult passed through the crowd like a spark through dry kindling. Even the combat master's expression didn't change—a silent permission.
Then Varn stepped into the ring—son of Elder Krogar, thick of limb and bloated with entitlement. His shoulders were already broad for his age, and his muscles developed from early training. Three fresh kill-marks adorned his left shoulder, new trophies from his first hunt. He raised a hand and pointed directly at Sarkan, his smile revealing filed teeth.
"You shouldn't be here," he growled, voice carrying across the sudden hush. "Freaks with silver eyes should be buried, not trained."
The other children formed a tighter circle, the anticipation of violence thickening the air. Some of the older Orcs paused in their own combat drills to watch.
The combat master slammed his staff against the ground once. "Begin!"
Varn attacked without hesitation.
Sarkan dodged the first strike—a brutal downward chop that would have struck his horn—pivoting fluidly to the side. But the second attack came faster than he anticipated. A brutal knee slammed into his ribs with a sound like green wood breaking. He hit the dirt hard, air rushing from his lungs.
Laughter erupted around him, high and sharp. Other young orcs stomped their feet in rhythm, encouraging Varn to finish the fight. The combat master watched impassively, his single eye revealing nothing.
"Not fit to be the chief's son!" Varn crowed, circling Sarkan's fallen form with performative swagger. "Not even fit to bleed!"
Sarkan tasted copper in his mouth. Blood traced the edge of his lip, warm and familiar. A sharp pain radiated through his chest with each breath. Something was cracked, if not broken. He rose slowly; one hand pressed against his side. His breath was shallow, careful.
But his eyes, those strange, mismatched eyes, didn't waver. They fixed on Varn with a coldness that silenced some of the laughter.
(“I will remember this, he thought, the words a promise he made to himself. I will remember you.”)
He said nothing aloud. He simply looked at Varn. And remembered.
The second exchange was briefer. Varn, emboldened by his first success and the approval of the crowd, swung wildly. Sarkan, despite his injury, slipped beneath the blow and struck—a quick, precise jab to Varn's throat. Not enough to cause lasting damage, but enough to stop the larger boy's advance.
Varn stumbled back, coughing and clutching his neck, his eyes wide with surprise and rage.
"Lucky strike," someone called from the edge.
The combat master's staff struck the ground again. "Enough. The lesson is taught."
But Varn wasn't finished. His face darkened with humiliation, he charged at Sarkan with a roar, abandoning all technique. This time, his weight and momentum carried them both to the ground. Fists rained down. Sarkan felt his skin split beneath the blows, felt blood bloom warm across his face.
"Varn! Enough!" The combat master's voice cut through the cheers.
Sarkan tasted dirt and blood. The world narrowed to a tunnel of pain. But even as darkness edged his vision, he did not cry out. He did not beg. He simply endured, his eyes, one now swollen shut, never leaving Varn's face.
When the combat master finally pulled Varn away, the larger boy was still swinging, still consumed by the primal satisfaction of violence.
"Remember your place, freak," Varn spat, chest heaving with exertion and emotion.
Sarkan remained silent, his body battered but his spirit unyielding. Around the pit, the other young orcs watched with a mixture of fascination and discomfort. There was something in Sarkan's silence that unsettled them more than any defiance could have.
The combat master knelt beside him, examining his injuries with an expert's detachment. "You fought poorly," he said, voice low and gravelly from years of battle cries. "But you endured well. That is also a strength."
"I didn't fight like an orc," Sarkan replied, his words slightly slurred through swollen lips.
The old warrior's remaining eye narrowed. "You fought like someone who will fight again. That is enough for today."
As the combat master helped him to his feet, Sarkan caught a glimpse of his father, Gorvak, Warlord of Tharnak, watching from the edge of the training grounds. Their eyes met briefly, and something passed between them—not approval, not disappointment, but recognition. Then the warlord turned and walked away, his massive form cutting a swath through the crowd.
Sarkan stood alone in the pit, blood trickling down his face, committing every detail of this moment to memory.
That night, the wind hissed through bone totems that surrounded the encampment, carrying whispers of coming storms and ancient warnings. Flamelight flickered beneath blackened cauldrons, casting pale gold across the leather walls of the chieftain's tent. Sarkan sat cross-legged by the central fire, swathed in furs still damp from the evening rain.
Sha'vara, his mother, was a shamanka whose name was still whispered around campfires across three territories. Her features were marked by an elegance that was unusual among the tribe women. While most were fine-looking, her features were unique: she had high cheekbones, golden eyes that were just a shade too pale for a full-blooded orc, and a presence that unsettled even the boldest warriors. Some said she carried foreign blood in her veins. As she crouched beside him, her movements were precise as she ground herbs between stone and bone, mixing them with rendered fat to create a pungent salve. Her hands were steady as she packed his wounds, her touch neither gentle nor rough, but purposeful. Her silence was not cruel; it was reverent.
The tent smelled of medicinal herbs, smoke, and the metallic tang of blood. Outside, drums began to beat—a slow, steady rhythm that marked the changing of the night guards. The sound vibrated through the ground, up through Sarkan's bones.
"Why am I weaker?" he asked finally, eyes fixed on the fire's dancing heart. "Why am I not like them?"
Sha'vara paused, her fingers lingering at the edge of a cut above his eye. Her own eyes—gold-ringed and impassive—met his mismatched gaze without flinching.
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"You assume much," she replied, her voice low and musical despite its strength. "What makes you think you are weaker?"
"I lost."
"You survived." She resumed her work, spreading the salve with practiced efficiency. "There is a difference between losing a battle and being defeated."
"Varn—"
"Varn fights like a charging boar. Effective against saplings, useless against stone." She tapped Sarkan's chest, just above his heart. "You must decide who you are."
Sarkan frowned, wincing as the movement pulled at his split lip. "But I am smaller. Slower."
"Because your roots reach where theirs cannot. You carry what they could never endure." She set aside the remaining salve, wiping her hands on a scrap of leather. "You know we are not fully of the tribe, Sarkan. You know this."
He nodded, the movement small and careful. His unusual features made that truth impossible to ignore.
"Then why make me fight their way?" he asked.
" So that you can learn what doesn't work and understand how your kin think." Sha'vara's lips curved in a subtle smile. "You always speak of weakness. Perhaps you should speak of difference."
"You always speak in riddles."
"Then learn to listen deeper." She leaned close, her breath warm against his ear as her voice dropped into a tone meant only for him. "You were not made from rage alone. Your strength is older than this tribe. It will rise slowly, but when it does, it will never falter."
The tent flap opened, bringing with it a gust of chilly night air and the silhouette of Gorvak, massive against the firelight outside. He ducked to enter, his presence immediately filling the space. His gaze fell on Sarkan, examining his injuries with the same cool assessment he might give a damaged weapon.
"He fought today," Sha'vara said, rising to her feet with fluid grace.
"I saw." Gorvak's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "Varn is stronger."
"Varn is predictable," she countered, meeting her mate's gaze without deference. "His kind of strength is common. It breaks when bent."
Gorvak grunted, moving to the fire to warm his hands. Scars crisscrossed his knuckles, telling stories of countless battles won through those massive fists. "The tribe sees weakness in him," he said, nodding toward Sarkan. "They whisper."
"Let them whisper, he is your son anyway. A future chief and warrior, just like all his siblings," Sha'vara replied. "Words break against truth eventually."
Sarkan watched this exchange in silence, feeling the undercurrents between his parents—the tension, the shared understanding, the unspoken concern. This wasn't the first such conversation he had witnessed.
"What truth?" he asked suddenly, his voice small but clear.
Both adults turned to him, something passing between them—a decision made in the space of a glance.
"That you are more than the tribe believes," Gorvak said finally. "And less than they fear."
"That is not an answer," Sarkan replied, frustration edging his voice.
Gorvak's laugh was unexpected—a deep, rumbling sound rarely heard outside of victory feasts. "No, it is not. But it is what you have for now." He knelt, bringing himself to Sarkan's level, his massive frame making the gesture seem almost unnatural. "You lost today. What did you learn?"
Sarkan held his father's gaze, thinking of the fight, of Varn's predictable fury, of his own mistakes. "That I cannot win by fighting with just strength and force like them."
Gorvak nodded, satisfaction evident in his expression. "Good. Remember that. Find your own way to victory." He rose, turning to leave, then paused. "And Sarkan—next time, make Varn bleed more before you fall."
After Gorvak left, silence settled over the tent again. Sarkan stared into the fire, thinking of his father's words, of his mother's riddles, of the combat master's assessment.
(“I cannot win by fighting like them.”)
He looked down at his hands—smaller than Varn's, the knuckles bruised and split. But his fingers were longer, more dexterous. Different.
(“Then I'll train twice as hard, he thought, curling his fingers into fists. And I'll find my own path to strength. My own way to break them.”)
Three days later, the tribe assembled beneath the altar-rock—a megalith etched with runes so ancient that even the oldest elders admitted their meaning was more myth than memory. The stone rose from the earth like a finger pointing accusingly at the sky, its surface weathered by centuries of wind and rain and blood.
Elder Krogar stood before it, flanked by armored veterans and spear-bearers whose tattoos told stories of victories and conquests. His age-spotted hands gripped a staff topped with the skull of some ancient predator; its teeth still sharp enough to tear flesh.
"Strength is not given," he bellowed, his voice carrying across the gathered tribe despite his years. "It is seized. And what is seized must be defended in blood. The weak obey. The strong command."
Spears struck the earth in rhythm, a thunderous affirmation that reverberated through the gathered orcs. Warriors pounded their chests or weapons against shields, the cacophony a celebration of their brutal creed.
Sarkan stood with the other children, his injuries still visible but healing. The swelling had subsided from his eye, though bruises painted his face in shades of purple and yellow. He stood apart, not by choice but by the subtle distancing of others.
Whispers clung to him like ash, carried from ear to ear:
"The cursed one." "Eyes like fire and moon." "He won't live long enough to learn what he is."
Then Varn stepped forward again, moving with the confidence of one who knows he walks with the tribe's approval. A bundle of charred wolf bones hung from his belt—tokens from his recent hunt, proof of his growing prowess. He untied them and dropped them at Sarkan's feet with theatrical scorn.
"Pups need toys," he announced loudly, ensuring all could hear. "Play, half-blood."
Laughter surged through the gathered children, though some of the older warriors remained stone-faced, their eyes evaluating rather than mocking.
Sarkan said nothing. He bent, movements deliberate despite the pain that still radiated through his ribs, and gathered the bones. Rather than discarding them or responding to the taunt, he carried them to the ceremonial fire that burned at the base of the altar-rock.
He laid them carefully in the flames, arranging them with purpose rather than simply tossing them aside. The gesture was not one of submission, but of ritual—transforming an insult into an offering.
"What are you doing?" Varn demanded, surprise overtaking his smugness.
Sarkan finally spoke, his voice quiet but carrying in the sudden hush. "Burning away what is weak. As the tribe teaches."
His words caught Elder Krogar's attention. The old orc's eyes narrowed, studying Sarkan with renewed interest. Nearby, Gorvak watched impassively, but Sha'vara's lips curved in the barest hint of a smile.
"Clever words won't save you in battle," Varn sneered, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
"Neither will stale insults," Sarkan replied evenly, watching the bones blacken and crack in the flames. "Yet here we are."
A few warriors chuckled, appreciating the unexpected reply. Varn's face darkened with anger, but before he could respond, Elder Krogar's staff struck the ground with authority.
"Enough," the elder commanded. "The ceremony continues. All will demonstrate their strength in the coming days."
As the gathering dispersed, Sarkan felt something shift in the air around him—not acceptance, not yet, but perhaps the first seed of something beyond mere tolerance. The bones in the fire popped and split, releasing their essence to the sky.
Soon, he thought, watching Varn retreat with his companions. Not yet, but soon.
That night, under a canopy of star-pricked black, Sarkan crept from the camp. The guards paid him little mind—a chief's son had certain privileges, and nighttime wanderings were not uncommon for young orcs testing their courage. The forest beyond the palisades loomed dark and mysterious, alive with the sounds of nocturnal creatures.
There was no audience here. No judgmental eyes. No expectations shaped by generations of tradition. Only breath. Earth. Shadow.
He found a clearing, moonlight dappling the ground through the canopy above. At its center stood an ancient oak, its trunk wide and gnarled with age. Sarkan approached it, feeling the rough texture of its bark beneath his fingers, sensing the life that pulsed beneath its surface.
Then he struck.
His fist connected with the bark, pain shooting up his arm. He struck again. And again.
Each blow was measured, not wild with rage like Varn's attacks, but searching. Questioning. His mind focused not on causing damage but on understanding—how his body moved, where resistance met force, how impact traveled through bone and muscle.
The bark split under his persistent assault. Blood smeared across his knuckles, reopening wounds barely healed. His chest heaved with exertion.
"Stronger," he whispered to himself, the word becoming a mantra. "Faster. Harder."
Each blow was slower than the last, his young body reaching its limits. Until finally—
He collapsed.
Knees met moss and damp earth. His breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat mingled with blood on his skin, cooling rapidly in the night air.
Then—something moved.
Not in the forest around him, but within. A whisper that wasn't a sound but a sensation. A memory that didn't belong to him.
A man. Lean. Agile. Powerful. Moving not like an orc, but like water forged into weapon. Holds. Strikes. Flow. The vision came in fragments—hands positioning themselves with precision, weight shifting in ways that maximized force with minimal effort, movements that seemed almost like a dance but were unmistakably lethal.
Judo. Aikido. Boxing. Muay Thai.
The names meant nothing to him, strange sounds that nonetheless resonated with something deep within. But the movements... they etched themselves into his mind with perfect clarity, as though he had performed them a thousand times before.
A voice—not his—drifted through the ether of his consciousness:
Breathe. Focus. Flow.
The Seed stirred.
He didn't understand what was happening, only that something within him was awakening—something that had lain dormant until now, until this moment of desperate seeking.
Sarkan rose again, swaying slightly. He positioned his feet as he had seen in the vision, feeling the rightness of the stance. His hands formed fists differently—thumbs outside, not crushed beneath his fingers as he had been taught. He breathed deeply, feeling his center of gravity lower, becoming more stable.
He struck the tree again—but differently now. Not hammering against it, but using its strength against itself, redirecting force rather than opposing it directly. The impact still jarred his bones, but differently. More controlled. More purposeful.
For hours, he practiced under the indifferent watch of the stars, moving through forms he had never been taught but somehow knew. Each movement became more fluid than the last, his body remembering what his mind had never learned. When he finally returned to camp, dawn was breaking over the eastern ridge.
The night guards eyed him curiously—the chief's strange son, moving with a new purpose, his hands bloody but his eyes clear. None stopped him as he made his way back to his family's tent.
When he finally slept, his dreams were filled with strange visions: cities that touched the sky, lights that burned without flame, weapons that spoke with thunder. And through it all, the persistent whisper of that voice:
Breathe. Focus. Flow.
When dawn fully breached the forest canopy, Sarkan stood again, facing the new day with fresh purpose. His hands were bloody. His bones ached. But something had changed.
He no longer stood like a cub uncertain of its place. He stood like something learning. Something becoming.
I am not like them, he thought, watching the camp come alive with morning activities. And I do not need to be.
Beneath the skin, behind the eyes, and between the slowly-growing horns—the Seed remembered.
Young sarkan
Sha’vara
Govark
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