Day One – Foundations in Fear
The first day began with the smell of smoke and damp earth. The village prepared for war in its own rough way—children sparring with sticks, older Orcs hammering out weapons on makeshift anvils, and shamans painting curses on the ground to bless the coming bloodshed.
Himmel was handed over to Madam Kimpa, who dragged him out into a circle marked with bones. She had him repeat Fear until his throat burned. "Again," she croaked, pounding her cane into the dirt. "Not rage, not pride—intent. You must mean it, boy."
When Himmel's shout finally froze a crow mid-flight, Kimpa nodded. "Better. The world listens when your heart speaks."
Meanwhile, Abbot received a bow, its wood warped and string uneven. He frowned, trying to adjust his stance, muttering that the grip felt wrong. A few Orc boys jeered when he missed the target, but Abbot gritted his teeth and kept shooting. Himmel admired the determination.
Texan unrolled his scroll—Wobbly Wombat. He burst out laughing. "This is a fighting style? Looks like drunk stumbling!" Yet when he tried the movements, the rhythm shifted—low sweeps, sudden lunges, collapsing feints. His first attempt ended with him tumbling into the dirt, but Himmel saw potential. "It's not pretty," Himmel said, "but neither is war."
That evening, the three sat beneath the firelit sky, Riaz resting close. Himmel brushed her mane while Texan complained about aching knees and Abbot rubbed blisters from his bowstring. For the first time, they felt like a party.
Day Two – Wobble and String
The second day dawned hot, the village buzzing with hammer strikes and chanting. Texan's wobbling grew more convincing—he lurched one way, staggered back, then snapped upright with a vicious elbow to a practice dummy. The dummy's head cracked clean off. He has reached level 2.
"See?" Texan shouted proudly. "Looks dumb, then bam—jaw gone."
Abbot smirked, lining up his bow. He shot three arrows in succession—two missed, but one struck near the center. "Better," Himmel said, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Don't patronize me," Abbot muttered, though the faint smile betrayed his pride.
Kimpa summoned Himmel again, testing Drowsy. She made him whisper the word into the wind. Abbot's eyes drooped as if a weight dragged them down. "Oi!" the elf snapped, shaking it off. Kimpa only cackled. "Chains unseen bind the strongest."
That night, Texan sprawled in the grass. "I laugh too much," he admitted. "But if I stop laughing, I'll cry." Abbot gave him a rare nod. Himmel looked between them, smiling. "Then laugh, cry—whatever. Just don't leave me."
Kimpa, overhearing, frowned but said nothing.
Day Three – The Breakthrough
By midday, Abbot loosed a perfect shot. The arrow sank into the bullseye dead center. He exhaled, steady as stone. "Level two," he said simply.
Texan whooped and clapped him hard on the back. "Finally, bow-boy! Took you long enough."
"Better than pretending to be drunk," Abbot retorted, though his grin stayed.
Their sparring that afternoon was chaotic but effective. Himmel roared Fear, freezing two Orcs mid-step. Texan darted in, feinting a stumble before smashing into one's chest. Abbot's arrow whistled past Himmel's ear, clipping the second opponent.
That night, Himmel lay beside Riaz, his fingers combing through her mane. "They'll stand by me. I can feel it," he whispered. She gave a quiet huff, her dark eyes reflecting the firelight. Himmel mistook it for agreement.
Day Four – Tempers and Trust
The day began with a hunt. Abbot's arrow flew wide, missing a deer by inches. Texan doubled over laughing. "Even I could've hit that!"
Abbot's ears reddened. "Then grab the bow, fish-boy."
They squared off until Himmel shoved between them, axe planted in the soil. "Save it for the enemy. We don't bleed each other before war."
Their silence was heavy, but later that evening, over roasted scraps of rabbit, the tension eased. Texan admitted, "I pick fights because it's easier than admitting I'm scared."
Abbot sighed. "And I push myself because if I stop trying… I'll fall apart."
Himmel grinned. "Then we keep each other upright. Deal?" They clasped hands, sealing it.
Kimpa, sitting nearby, murmured to Riaz, "He trusts them too much."
Day Five – Chains and Promises
Kimpa drilled Himmel mercilessly. She had him curse Texan with Slow, dragging his feints into sluggish arcs until Himmel easily knocked him down.
Texan groaned from the dirt. "I hate you."
"You'll thank him when it saves your life," Kimpa said.
That night, the three gathered by Riaz. Texan leaned against her flank, Abbot fletched arrows, and Himmel stoked the fire.
"For the first time," Texan said quietly, "I feel like I belong."
Abbot nodded. "Same. Feels… good."
Himmel smiled warmly. "Then let's make sure we survive. That's a promise."
Kimpa turned her face away, the flames catching in her wet eyes.
Day Six – Mock Battle
The mock battle drew a crowd. Himmel bellowed Fear, freezing one opponent. Texan stumbled and flailed, then cracked an Orc across the jaw. Abbot loosed arrows with precision, forcing their enemies back.
Himmel took the brunt of two attackers, blood running from a split lip, until Texan distracted one and Abbot nailed the other with a shot through the shoulder. They won—barely—but the crowd roared approval.
Afterward, the three clasped arms. "See?" Texan shouted. "We're unstoppable!"
Abbot smirked. "Not bad—for us."
Himmel believed every word. "Together, we'll be legendary."
Kimpa only shook her head. Riaz shifted uneasily.
Day Seven – The Eve of War
The night was alive with drums and fire. Orc soldiers pounded on stretched-hide drums with clubs, their deep, primal rhythms shaking the ground. Sparks rose into the night sky as pyres were lit, flames painting the tents in shifting shadows. Shamans painted glowing wards on armor with ash and blood, muttering guttural chants to bind strength and courage to their warriors. The acrid scent of smoke mingled with the metallic tang of blood offerings—iron in the air thick enough to taste.
Everywhere, tension hummed like a bowstring pulled taut. Some Orcs sharpened their blades obsessively, again and again, as if dull steel alone would spell doom. Others laughed too loudly around the fire, disguising fear with bravado. Fistfights broke out between recruits, most ending with a bloodied lip and a barked laugh. The camp was no longer just a village—it was a war machine, alive, restless, and cruel.
Himmel, Texan, and Abbot sparred until their bodies screamed for rest. Himmel cursed Texan with Slow, forcing him to stumble through his feints like he was drunk, while Abbot fired arrows in quick succession, each loosing with a sharp twang. Himmel wove curses through his axe swings—Fear to freeze a sparring Orc, Despair to sap his will, then a heavy strike to knock him flat.
Texan retaliated with the erratic movements of the Wobbly Wombat, his fists weaving in unpredictable arcs. He would trip, stagger, then spring into motion—at one point nearly taking Himmel's nose off with a sudden uppercut. "See? Even my mistakes are genius!" he crowed, chest heaving.
Abbot's bowstring sang as he loosed a final volley. Sweat ran down his brow, but his arrows found their mark—one pinning a target through the shoulder, another grazing Himmel's sleeve without cutting flesh. "Better than yesterday," he muttered, deadpan, though his lips twitched toward a smile.
By the end, they collapsed together in the dirt, bruised but laughing, their weapons clattering beside them. Around them, Orc recruits cheered or jeered. The trio only laughed harder, united in exhaustion.
Later, they sat by a smaller fire away from the main camp, Riaz and the herd close by. The distant drums still throbbed, but here the shadows were softer, quieter. Himmel tossed another log into the flames.
"I know I said we'd just take loot and run," Himmel admitted, voice low but firm. "But I want to fight. And win."
Texan shook his head, grinning though his voice carried unease. "You're insane. But I'll stumble into battle right behind you, even if my legs are shaking the whole time."
Abbot smirked faintly. "And I'll make sure no one touches you from afar." He tapped his bowstring, but his hand lingered a second longer than usual—whether from pride or nervousness, Himmel couldn't tell.
Himmel's chest swelled. "Then it's settled. Together, we win."
For a moment, the three of them believed it. Their laughter rose, ragged but bright, defying the gloom of war.
Yet when the laughter faded, silence stretched between them. The crackle of the fire filled the space where unspoken fears lay heavy. Texan fiddled with his scroll, practicing small feints with his hands, repeating the motions like a prayer. Abbot polished his arrows until his fingers bled. Neither admitted what Himmel could feel pressing down on all of them—that tomorrow, some of them might not see another sunrise.
Later that night, Madam Kimpa approached quietly. She sat beside Himmel, her robes carrying the scent of herbs and ash. Without a word, she pressed her forehead to his, her voice soft as the fire's whisper.
"Remember, child—you are never alone." Her arms wrapped around him briefly, a warmth he hadn't felt since his mother. For a moment, Himmel closed his eyes and let himself believe he was just a boy again, safe in the embrace of someone who loved him without condition.
Riaz lowered her great head beside them, brushing Himmel's shoulder with her muzzle. He leaned against her, burying his face in her mane. Between Kimpa's embrace and Riaz's steady presence, it felt like family—stronger than blood, stronger than banishment.
He whispered, "With you both, I can face anything."
As the night deepened, Kimpa lingered by the fire long after Himmel and the others drifted into uneasy sleep. Her gaze was fixed on the flames, her face lined not only with age but with worry. She glanced once at Abbot, who twitched restlessly even in his dreams, and at Texan, who muttered faintly, fists clenched.
Turning back to Riaz, Kimpa's voice was almost inaudible beneath the drums. "He trusts them too much."
Riaz's dark eyes met hers, and she gave a low, mournful rumble. Kimpa's fingers tightened around her staff. She had seen it before—trust, fragile and fierce, broken on the battlefield. She prayed she was wrong this time.
But the firelight offered no answers. Only the rhythm of drums, beating like the promise of blood.