That’s all the mages had to offer.
Just that one word. Flat. Useless.
No screams. No flares. No armor, not even a boot-strap. Just a patch of quiet so deep it felt wrong—like the woods had gulped them down and left no crumbs. No chewing, no spit-back. Just gone.
But Roaka didn’t buy it.
They weren’t lost. Not fully.
The scent still lingered—faint, frayed, twitchy like a severed nerve sparking under skin.
She knelt low, nostrils flaring. A twitch. A snarl of breath. The air burned cold and coppery, threaded with ozone and the wet stink of pine mulch. The trail clung like regret.
It ended at a circle.
Still pulsing. Still hungry.
Glowing symbols buzzed like hornets, humming low, eager. Like it hadn’t had its fill yet.
Roaka didn’t need some robe-draped arcana junkie to explain it. She didn’t do theory. Sigils, ley lines, entropy harmonics—whatever. That crap slid right off her brain like grease on stone.
One—Find the missing crew.
Two—Break whoever took them.
That’s the kind of logic she could sink her teeth into.
She wasn’t clever. She didn’t pretend to be. Orc-born, blood-deep. Built from knuckle and nerve. Her hands? Made for smashing through bone, not flipping through spellbooks.
Primitive? Maybe.
Stupid? Ask whoever was still conscious.
Savage?
...Sure. That one she wore like war paint.
But she wasn’t wild.
Not some mindless beast on a leash. She was a berserker. A fighter with rules—shaky ones, maybe, but still rules. She didn’t foam at the mouth. She chose when to bite.
There’s a line. Thin as a trigger. But it’s there.
Roaka straightens slowly, eyeing the circle like it might blink first.
She doesn’t trust it.
Doesn’t trust magic in general.
Mages love to waggle their fingers and call it power. But power doesn’t flicker. Power crushes.
And she does trust power.
She taps her axe handle twice, short and sharp. Habit. Like a heartbeat.
Her pack—The Gnarly Roses—were gathered. Readying up.
Normally? Retrieval jobs were just that. Jobs. Coin in, bodies out. Simple.
But this wasn’t that.
Not for pay. Not for fame.
For family. For Honor. For glory.
Because the ones who vanished?
They weren’t clients. They were friends.
Fighters. Bastards. Friends.
The crew had bled together too long to pretend otherwise.
They’d snapped at each other. Stolen rations. Tossed fists.
And still stood side by side when it counted.
Now? Gone.
That glowing ring? Might’ve eaten them whole.
And Roaka?
She wasn’t gonna ask it nicely to spit ‘em back out.
She steps closer. One boot in the dirt, the other on the edge of the sigil.
One step—that’s all it takes.
One breath ago, Roaka was in the wilds. Wind slicing her cheeks. Sky wide and brutal above her. Trees whispering in tongues older than language.
Now?
Stone.
Cold. Flat. Dead.
The shift isn't just spatial—it's visceral.
The air thickens, presses against her tongue like grave mold. Her shoulders tighten, instinct clenching before her thoughts catch up. The walls aren’t close. But they feel like they are. Too close. Breathing in.
She growls low. “I hate magic.”
Nostrils flare like she’s stepped in something foul.
"Relax—"
Someone says it. Calm voice. Too calm. Doesn't finish.
Doesn’t get the chance.
Something... shifts. Or maybe it doesn’t.
Not a sound. Not a movement. Just presence.
Old. Heavy. Wrong.
It isn’t stone. Isn’t metal. It’s something between—half-fused, unnatural. Shapes loom in the gloom. Statues, maybe. If statues could breathe. If they flexed fingers like they missed the feeling of a throat.
They stand like gods carved from war. Massive. Grim. Still.
Still in that way that screams.
Roaka grins. Sharp. Predatory. “Perfect.”
"No!"
The Tiger-kin’s voice slices through the tension—sharp, clipped, impossible to ignore.
Roaka blinks. “What?”
“We’ll handle this. You keep moving. Find the others.”
She bristles. That’s not how she works. She doesn’t walk away from a fight once she’s felt its weight. Doesn’t leave her fists hungry.
Her mouth opens—
“That’s an order.”
Not loud. Just solid. Steel behind the words.
Not a request. Not a debate.
A command.
Roaka scowls.
Then nods.
Fine. Let them have their blood and glory.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
She turns. Muscles twitching. Teeth clenched.
She’s got prey waiting.
The ruins groan under Roaka’s boots.
Stone cracks beneath her like brittle bones—too old, too tired to hold the weight of war anymore. Dust coughs up with every step, like breath wheezing out of something ancient. Something dying.
Then it hits her.
That curl of static behind her tusks. Not pain—worse.
Unnatural. Electric.
It slithers across her gums and races down her limbs—sharp, tingly, hot. Pins and needles stabbing over olive skin.
The stone hums beneath her, low and reverent, like it’s praying to something older than gods.
Magic.
It’s thick here. Tangled in the air. Twitching like a coiled snake.
The walls shift. Just a little. Not enough to scream danger—but enough to know something's wrong.
They're flexing. Breathing. Holding something in… or her out.
Either way, they remember.
They remember what’s buried here.
And they don’t want her touching it.
Roaka bares her teeth.
“Orcs got good noses,” she mutters, half to herself, half to the stone.
The smirk that follows is ugly and mean. Private.
She’s not wrong.
She smells them.
Lavender—clean, soft, too polished for a place like this. Selene. Too pretty. Too smart. Doesn’t belong here, and still somehow always does.
Earth and sweat—heavy, grounded, honest. Gorik. Smells like blood, history, and someone too stubborn to die.
Then—ugh. Burnt metal. Grease. That sour buzz of nervous energy and fried circuits.
Tibbins.
Gremlin stink and brass guts. She can taste him.
The stone can lie. The air can fake you out.
But scent?
Scent doesn’t lie.
She barrels through the next doors like a wrecking ball in heat—leather, muscle, and fury wrapped in impatience.
And stops.
There’s a man standing in the middle of the chamber.
He’s not a scribe. Not one of those ruin-crawlers with ink-stained fingers and knees that pop when they squat.
This guy’s solid. Built thick. Still as stone. Not cocky like a fighter. Not puffed-up like some spoiled noble. Just… there. Heavy. Grounded. A mountain in human skin, and something about him thrums with coiled intent.
Peasant rags hang loose over callused hands. No armor. No drawn weapon. But still—wrong.
Behind him, half-buried in the rubble, squats a throne. Massive. Cracked. Covered in old sigils that still glow faintly through the grime. The runes crawl across her vision, clawing at something half-remembered. A language that never should’ve been written. One that screams even when whispered.
Then he speaks.
“Holy shit… you scared the ba-jesus outta me.”
She freezes. Blink. Frown.
That voice—his cadence, his rhythm—it’s not Common. Not Trade. Not even Orcish.
It’s Monster Tongue.
Harsh. Ugly. Familiar. Hated. The first sound she ever learned. The one she was beaten for speaking. The one that kept her alive when nothing else did.
Her eyes narrow. Tusks flash.
“Hey, white meat. Where friends? What you do with Roaka’s people?”
He tilts his head. Brows lift. His eyes—icy and clear like snowmelt—lock onto hers and widen. Then he laughs. Full-body. Loud and open like it’s the funniest damn thing he’s heard all year.
“Holy shit. An orc.”
No fear. No shift in posture. No twitch toward a weapon. Just that stupid grin, like she’s a zoo exhibit.
Her jaw tightens. Shoulders pull back. Muscles bunch beneath her armor like they’re waiting for an excuse.
“Yeah. Orc. What—never seen strong woman before?”
He laughs harder. Real belly-laugh this time. It echoes through the stone like a taunt.
“Well, how about that... Cutie pie.”
Her brain stutters.
Cutie pie?
What the hell even—?
The rage hits fast, thick and hot, bubbling up from her gut like molten iron.
“Roaka not cute. Roaka strong. Roaka not pie. Roaka make pie outta man-flesh.”
His hands go up. Not fear. Not even a challenge. Just… placating.
She clocks the thing on his back—metal, but not a sword. Long and bulky. Too big for a rifle. Too sleek for a cannon. Alien.
“Whoa, whoa—easy there, ma’am,” he says, still grinning like a fool. “Didn’t mean anything by it. Just… you can understand me. And I can understand you.”
She growls. “No shit. Monster Tongue. All orcs know.”
Roaka starts circling. One slow, steady step at a time. Her eyes never leave his.
The axes come free—twin blades sliding into her hands like they’d missed her. Their edges catch the glow from the runes above, a flicker of cold light on sharper steel.
She smiles. Bare. Tight. All teeth.
Predator’s smile.
“You speak Monster Tongue,” she says. Voice low. Grounded. “Roaka understand. So you—no normal human.”
She circles him like thunder dragging its knuckles across dry earth—slow, tight, all that pressure coiling up in her spine. Not stalking. Judging. Watching the way he shifts his weight, how the muscles in his shoulders bunch and relax under that scrap cloth shirt. No wasted motion. Every twitch tells her something.
Then he draws.
Not sloppy. Not slow. No hesitation, no reverence. Just a clean, practiced motion—like he’s done this more times than he’s bothered to count. His stance? Solid. Spearman’s grip. Balanced. Like someone who’s bled in worse places.
But the weapon’s wrong.
Too short for a lance. Too thick for a blade. Barrel-wide, heat-scarred, humming like a cornered animal. Ugly thing. Built for damage, not ceremony.
Roaka narrows her eyes.
Thoughts sharpen. Clean. Like axe-edges before a hunt. Her lips twitch—half a smirk, half a warning. Charming little meat-sack. Wonder if the others’ll let me keep him.
Then the ruin hums.
Not from him. Not from spellwork. No stink of ether, no afterglow on his skin. The air itself vibrates. The walls remember. Blood spilled here. Screams carved into the stone.
But him?
He’s not a mage. Doesn’t carry that kind of stink. No power hiding in his bones. But there’s something else. Strength.
She smells it.
Not fresh. Old. Buried. Tastes like rusted armor and dried marrow. Survivor’s scent. The kind that lingers on people who’ve been torn up and left standing. He’s fought. He’s lost. And he’s walked away.
If he’s just some lucky bastard who stumbled into something ancient and cursed?
Maybe she lets him go. Maybe she knocks him down, takes his pride, sends him limping off to cry about it.
But.
Roaka’s chest tightens. That feeling again. Hunger. A low, curling need in her gut. Hasn’t had a proper fight in weeks. Hasn’t taken anyone in longer.
But if he’s the reason the others are gone?
If he took them?
Then his face won’t be worth recognizing by the time she’s done.
She steps in. Deliberate. Heavy. Weight behind every movement.
Crunch.
She stops cold. Boot half-raised. Dust kicks up around her.
There—half-buried in broken tile and grit—something catches the light.
A pocket watch.
That pocket watch.
Roaka stares.
Chest tight. Ears ringing. The whole world pulls back like she’s underwater—mute, slow, heavy.
She knows that watch.
She knows the deep scratches on the metal, the busted hinge that never sat right, the stupid little sun-etched face.
Tibbins’ watch.
He’d flashed it like a trophy. Grinned at her with those twitchy gnome hands and said it was a “shared language.” Showed her the hours. Made her care about something as dumb as time.
“Now you can wait for things,” he said.
She’d laughed. Punched him. “Roaka don’t wait. Roaka take.”
Her heart kicks against her ribs—louder than the hum in the air, louder than the ruin’s breath.
Red floods the edges of her vision.
And then she breaks.