The cobbled streets of the capital pulsed with noise, but Recon moved through them like a ghost between heartbeats. Vendors shouted, hammers struck anvils, wagons rumbled over stone, yet all the sound blurred into one long drone. His eyes slid past the colors and crowds. He saw none of it.
The air smelled of hot bread, smoke, and sweat, and still he felt cold.
He was tired—tired of being overlooked, of walking behind men stronger than him, of being the shadow's shadow. Every glance that skimmed past him, every insult he swallowed, pressed deeper into his ribs until his whole chest felt hollow.
By the time he reached the market square, the afternoon sun was a molten disk sinking between rooftops. He crossed the bridge of pale stone arching over a canal long since dried, its bed littered with coins and bones, and came face-to-face with the wall of white marble that ringed the Second Princess's estate.
It glittered under the light like the teeth of a god. Iron spikes tipped in gold crowned the top. Beyond them, a garden spread wide and unnatural—blades of grass so vivid they looked painted, every tree pruned into perfect spirals, the air sweet with crushed lilies. A fountain of an angelic orc poured clear water from her sword, and even the birds that perched along its edge sang in perfect rhythm, as if trained.
Recon stopped at the gate. The guards were carved from muscle and contempt—two orcs in blackened plate etched with red sigils that glowed faintly with heat.
"State your business," one growled, voice cracking like stone in frost.
Recon forced his shoulders square. "I'm here to join. The Second Princess's faction."
They blinked once, exchanged looks, and then both laughed—deep, booming, genuine laughter that echoed off the marble walls.
"Join?" sneered the taller one. "You? With that horn and that stick?"
"Maybe hang him on the gate," the other said. "Could use some decoration."
The first orc produced a small orb that pulsed like a captured heartbeat. "Identification protocol. Don't move, beast-boy."
The sphere floated in front of him, spinning faster, and a warm current of energy swept through his skin—probing, invasive. Then a crimson mark flared across his chest before fading.
"Slave mark," muttered the guard. "Spy."
"What? No, I—"
"Go back to whatever hole spat you out," the taller one said, already turning away.
They didn't even bother to draw weapons.
That, more than the laughter, burned.
Recon's fists clenched until his claws nicked his palms. He walked away, silent except for the soft grind of his boots. The city buzzed around him, but it all sounded far away.
He muttered, "Fine. Next one."
He followed the shadow of the Spire—an ancient black tower stabbing into the clouds, its walls veined with glowing runes. The closer he came, the colder the air felt, charged with the residue of old magic. The tower had once been a dungeon before the royal architects hollowed it into a palace. The King lived somewhere in its impossible height.
Recon entered through the lower gate, half expecting to be turned away. The guards here barely looked up. The floors were bone-white, smooth as water, reflecting the violet light of enchanted torches. He walked past halls that smelled of incense and dust until he reached a door carved with a single word: Concubines.
He hesitated. Then pushed it open.
Warm perfume rolled over him. The room was crimson velvet and candlelight, bodies reclining on low couches. Soft laughter. Gold bracelets chiming like bells. Orc women with painted tusks turned toward him, eyes heavy and amused.
"Well, hello there," one purred, voice like silk over steel.
He didn't even have time to speak before a hand—hard, gauntleted—grabbed his collar and hurled him backward through the door.
"You filthy mutt!" roared the guard, spitting near his boots. "Think this is open for beasts?"
He hit the dirt, breath knocked out of him, and stayed there for a moment staring at his reflection in a puddle.
"Last try," he whispered.
West of the capital, the road broke into dust and weeds. The noise of the city died behind him, replaced by the hiss of wind through dead grass. Clouds hung low and bruised purple, the air smelling faintly of iron.
After an hour's walk, he saw the camp. Not a castle—no marble, no banners. Just ten tents circling a single bonfire, every flame bent low under the weight of heat and power.
The orcs inside looked like statues carved from war. No armor—only scars. Each one radiated the kind of strength that made the ground seem smaller.
"Who you?" one demanded, spinning a mace bigger than Recon's torso.
"Why come here?"
Recon raised his hands. "I heard this is the Fourth Prince's faction. I want to join."
The air trembled. From the largest tent came a figure the size of a nightmare. The Fourth Prince, Rorgar. Bare-chested, skin like bronze stone, eyes glowing faintly red. A scar ran from temple to chin, bisecting one tusk. He looked Recon up and down the way a blacksmith looks at scrap metal.
"You want in?" he rumbled.
Recon nodded once.
"Then strip your weakness."
He dropped his pack. His bow, dagger, rations. His soul-bound bow lay across the pile, its faint pulse like a heartbeat under his palm.
"They'll keep it safe," he thought.
Rorgar lifted a warhammer from the ground with one hand and brought it down like judgment.
Wood shattered. Metal screamed. Magic ruptured like torn sinew. The light from the bond flared in Recon's chest, then died.
He staggered back, choking on a sound that wasn't quite a word.
"That… that was—"
"Your leash," Rorgar said. "Cut free."
Then he turned his back. "Now live, or leave."
The next five days were a slow death.
Day one: they made him fight for food. Ten warriors. Ten minutes. He didn't win. He ate mud that night.
Day two: they threw him into the training circle, told him to dodge every blow. He lasted twelve seconds.
Day three: they pushed him into a frozen river before dawn. He clawed his way out half-dead. They laughed and told him the cold would teach him discipline.
Day four: blindfolded sparring. He took a sword hilt to the jaw so hard he tasted iron for hours.
Day five: silence. They ignored him completely, like he didn't exist.
When morning came, Rorgar called the circle again. The fire crackled low, reflecting in his red eyes.
"Out," he said. "You breathe, but you're hollow. Weak men rot the strong."
Recon didn't speak. He didn't trust his voice not to break.
He walked past them, every step echoing against the stone floor of the camp like the click of a clock counting down.
He found what remained of his belongings in a heap of splinters and dented metal. His bow still lay there—cracked but faintly pulsing. Alive, just barely.
He lifted it with both hands. "Still here," he whispered, though he wasn't sure which of them he meant.
The road back to the capital was long, and every mile felt heavier. When the first city lights shimmered in the dusk, he felt nothing.
He wandered the alleys, bruised and half-starved, until he heard it—cheers, screams, and the clash of steel carried on the night wind.
He followed the noise.
The Pits lay in the underbelly of the city, carved from old sewer stone and lined with roaring fire. Dozens of spectators pressed against the iron railings, waving coins and bottles. The sand in the ring was stained black.
The air smelled of blood and victory.
Recon stood at the edge and watched a fighter fall. The crowd howled. Someone tossed a pouch of gold into the pit before attendants dragged the body away.
He didn't look away.
"Sign-ups that way," said a man at the booth, voice rough from shouting. "Three fights minimum. No breaks."
Recon's hand trembled only once as he wrote his name.
"You could die," the clerk said, glancing at his cracked bow.
"Maybe that's the point," Recon replied.
The man shrugged and stamped the parchment.
As he walked toward the spiral stair that led down, the crowd above screamed another name, another kill. The torches flickered red, painting the walls in motion.
He touched the broken bow slung across his shoulder and felt the faintest answering pulse.
This time, he thought, I earn my level.
He stepped toward the gate. The sound of the crowd swelled, a tide of voices rising to meet him.
He smiled.