The desert wasn't just deadly. It was patient. Sand dunes stretched endlessly, shaped by scorching winds that stripped flesh from careless travelers. Poisonous plants clawed up from the yellow sand, while monstrous predators stalked the shadows, waiting for fresh meat. This wasteland was called the Veil of Sand—known across the continent as one of its most unforgiving places. In a world drowning in monstrous, blood-hungry races, that meant something.
Through this hostile land stumbled a lone figure, wrapped in a ragged, baggy cloak. He moved like a hunted man, crimson seeping through the cloth with every step, staining it dark. He glanced over his shoulder every other minute.
Charles Mansour dragged his half-limp leg through the sand. The wound—a sword slash from his last fight—throbbed like fire. He staggered, almost falling again. It wasn't the first time. Probably wouldn't be the last.
"Those bastards almost got me," he whispered, breath harsh against the wind.
His destination: the Dwarf Free City—one of the last places that offered refuge to outlaws like him. If he'd known how far it was, how brutal the land in between, he might've tried his luck elsewhere.
Once, Charles had been a slave, chained by the Panther Tribe. Son of the chief, technically. His mother, a powerful and beautiful human woman, was captured after a lost battle and sold into slavery. Her reward for her strength and beauty? Becoming a concubine to the tribe's leader, a beastman drunk on lust and cruelty.
She fought him, hated him. But against a powerful beastman, her resistance was hopeless. It wasn't long before he forced himself into her bed. Charles was the result.
The chief had hoped for a strong beastman heir. Instead, he got Charles: a human boy with his father's sharp beast eyes and pointed teeth, but none of the panther's ears or tail. Disgusted, the chief tossed mother and son into the slave pens beside the village—and never looked back.
Charles's mother loved him fiercely, but captivity broke her. She didn't survive the brutal conditions long. She died before Charles turned three. All he remembered of her was a fading warmth… a memory of safety. The rest came from the whispers of kinder slaves and, mostly, from Orsen—the mentor who raised him, trained him, and taught him everything worth knowing.
Life was a blur of back-breaking labor and brutal training. Without the strength to defend himself, a slave wouldn't live long. To the Panther Tribe, humans were worth less than animals. They killed for any offense—real or imagined.
Charles's bloodline kept him alive—barely. No one dared kill the chief's bastard son outright. But his half-brother, Shadow, the heir of the tribe, made it his personal mission to torment Charles every chance he got. Beatings, humiliation, endless cruelty. Charles couldn't fight back. Not without a death wish. So he endured.
By sixteen, Charles had grown into a tall, lean young man with pale skin and wild black curls—a look his mentor once called handsome. Shadow called him a "sissy." Charles didn't care much for the opinion of a drunken bastard.
For a while, things got better. Stronger, faster, smarter… life started to seem bearable. He had Orsen. He had purpose.
But fate wasn't finished with him.
When Orsen fell ill and died, his last words were a quiet warning:
"Be patient. Don't make trouble. But if things go bad… head for the Dwarf Free City." Orsen knew him too well.
Charles buried his mentor beside his mother. Then he sat in the dirt, head in his hands, tears slipping through his fingers. Mourning the only family he'd ever known… mourning the life he'd never asked for.
A sneering laugh broke his thoughts. He looked up. Shadow stood there, eyes gleaming with cruelty.
"Shadow… funny name for such a loud-mouthed bastard."
Charles bowed his head, trying to ignore him. But Shadow was drunk—and itching for his favorite pastime. Tourmenting Charles. He called Charles a curse. Said everyone he cared about died because of him.
That was the last thing Charles remembered clearly. The rest was a blur. A flash of fists. The crushing weight of Shadow on his chest. The burning in his lungs as Shadow strangled him. His hand found a stone. He smashed it into Shadow's head. Once. Twice. Again.
By the time his vision cleared… Shadow's face was gone. Nothing left but a pulpy mess of blood and bone.
The world was spinning. Charles scrambled away from the body, shaking, a metallic taste on his tongue. His hands bloody and full of gore. He stared at the ruined face, the stillness that replaced the sneering hatred. A cold, awful certainty settled in his gut: he hadn't just fought back. He'd ended a life. The surroundings silence felt vast, amplifying his ragged heartbeat. He wanted to scream, to bury his face in the dirt. But the image of Shadow's hands around his neck, the pressure his windpipe, replayed in his mind.
"Him or me. Better it to be him "
The justification was immediate, a desperate shield against the rising nausea.
"What now? If I stay, I die."
Orsen's words echoed in his head.
"Run."
He searched Shadow's corpse. No money—figures. Probably blew it all at a whorehouse. The only valuables? A pair of enchanted daggers… and a gold ring marked with the Panther crest. He took both.
"They're wasted on a corpse," he muttered.
He barely covered the body before running.
He hadn't expected the tribe to notice so quickly. Or the chief to care so much.
It wasn't about Shadow. The chief didn't even flinch when sons died—probably didn't remember half of them. But the daggers? Different story. Blood-enchanted weapons were rare… priceless. The chief could always make more bastards. But enchanted blades? Those were irreplaceable.
The elite guards couldn't catch him—yet. But mercenaries, bounty hunters, slavers… they came in waves. Charles killed the weak ones, stole what he could, and ran from the strong. The last group nearly took his life.
And now…
"Maybe they finally gave up."
He was about to slow down—maybe even stop—when a sound pricked his ears. He turned. Four black dots on the horizon.The orcs.
They'd been tracking him for days—relentless. He'd tried every trick: false trails, misdirection, even covering his tracks for miles. He thought he'd shaken them. Silly him.
Orcs were hunters. Some of the best. These ones weren't random thugs, either. Bounty hunters. Veterans. And they wanted him alive. Which meant death would be a mercy compared to capture. He couldn't outrun them much longer. Nowhere to hide.
" So I'll give them a surprise instead. One they would never forget. "
He pressed forward until the next dune blocked him from sight. Then, fast and silent, he faked a trail to the south… and buried himself beneath the sand, masking his body with dry grass and a thin layer of grit. Waiting.
His heart thundered. Surely, they could hear it. His mouth was dry. Every muscle tensed, ready to spring. Fifteen minutes passed.
Footsteps. Heavy, sure, drawing closer.
They came into view—four hulking figures. Two meters tall, all muscle and sinew. Grey-green skin, tusked jaws, sharp horns curling from their heads. Three wore leather armor, swords at their hips, bows slung over their backs. Light infantry—fast and mobile. The fourth was a tank in iron plate, a massive two-handed sword strapped to his back. Scars crisscrossed his face and arms. He moved with the confidence of a man who'd killed many times—and survived every fight. On his own, he'd be a nightmare. With his team? Death itself.
They stalked forward, scanning for tracks. Patient. Professional.
Charles held his breath. They took the bait. Passed right by him.
"Now."
He exploded from the sand. One hand clamped over the nearest orc's mouth—the other drew a dagger across his throat. The orc gurgled and fell.
"One down."
He darted for the second. Same move—but this one caught a glimpse at the last second. He managed a strangled shout before Charles opened his throat.
The others spun, weapons drawn. No hesitation. No fear. They moved like wolves.
The swordsman charged first, fast and furious. His blade came low, aiming for Charles's leg. Charles leapt back and threw a dagger. It sank into the orc's thigh. The beast howled but didn't press forward. Instead, he turned toward the armored leader.
"Orok—stay back! I'll handle this."
The leader closed the distance in a blink—faster than Charles thought possible. His two-handed sword came in a brutal arc. Charles twisted aside, but the blade still carved into his shoulder, hot blood spilling down his arm. This is bad.
The warrior pressed the attack. Charles blocked with crossed daggers. The impact sent a jolt through his bones, his feet sinking deep into the sand. Too close. Charles slammed his knee into the leaders groin and drove a dagger straight into his left eye.
"In a fair fight, I'd be dead," Charles hissed. "So why fight fair?"
The orc fell—a heavy thud on the sand.
Only one left.
The last orc froze, eyes wide. His wounded leg trembled. Run or fight?
Charles locked eyes with him.
"If you want to live… drop your weapons, your money, and go. But tell the chief something for me."
The orc didn't move.
"Tell him I'm coming for his head."
The orc dropped his gear and bolted. Smart choice. Charles watched him vanish over the dune. He didn't chase. He couldn't have if he tried. His body screamed in pain. His arm hung heavy.
"Good… Didn't want to die anyway."
He dragged himself a short distance away and slumped against a rock. The sand around him darkened with blood.
"I need firewood. I need to stop the bleeding. I need… :
He laughed softly.
"I need a fucking miracle."
By nightfall, he sat by a crackling fire—wounds half-cauterized, his flesh still smoldering. Pain roared in his nerves, but he welcomed it. Pain meant alive.
On the surface, he looked calm. But his eyes burned with a storm of thoughts. How did it all come to this? Chased across the desert, hunted like a dog, a price on his head, and nothing in his hands but stolen blades and a fading will to live.
He leaned back, staring at the stars.
A chill danced along his neck. A whisper rode the wind.
"Look at that… what the sands dragged to my doorstep."
Charles froze.
"Not again."