Somewhere on a deserted island, a young orc hunts his boyfriend.

The jungle breathes.

The wind slithers through the canopy, sending ripples through the leaves, shifting the shadows in patterns that feel almost deliberate—like ghosts lurking in the undergrowth. The thick scent of damp earth and salt lingers in the air. Somewhere, waves crash against the distant cliffs. Birds scatter from the trees in startled bursts, fleeing from something large. Something dangerous.

Jorak grips the haft of his spear, forcing himself to still.

His prey is near. He can feel it in the tremor of the ground beneath his bare feet, in the faint rustling ahead, in the way the air tastes different when he is close.

Varog.

His mate. His love. His prey.

Jorak closes his eyes and exhales. He has done this before.

A thousand times before.

And each time, it ends the same.

Blood on the ground. A blade in his ribs. A triumphant grin or a sorrowful whisper. And then the world snaps back.

The Hunt Begins Again.

Once, before all of this—before the endless cycle of blood and time and death—Jorak had wanted only one thing: perfection.

The hunt was their tradition. A trial by combat, a ritual that bound one orc to another. It was not about dominance. Not truly. It was about worthiness. The first to draw blood laid claim to the other, not as a conquest, but as a promise. An orc could not love without struggle. Without proving, through sweat and steel, that their devotion was earned.

Jorak had wanted to do it right.

So he had cheated.

The devil’s charm had been such a small thing. Bone and blackened iron, smooth in his palm. A gift, the devil had murmured. A chance to make things perfect. If you falter—simply try again. Time is easy to mold, for those who have the will to shape it.

Jorak had taken the deal.

At first, it was exhilarating. If he misstepped, he rewound. If he hesitated, he rewound. If the moment was not just right, he rewound.

Again. And again. And again.

Until, one day, the charm had cracked.

And then it had shattered.

Now, the loop resets on its own.

Every few hours, the world snaps back to the start, dragging them both to the moment before the hunt begins. No matter what happens. No matter who wins. No matter who dies.

Jorak has lost count of how many times he has killed Varog.

He has lost count of how many times he has died at Varog’s hands.

He has lost count of how many times he has reached for the ring—the golden band he forged with his own hands—and tried to fix this.

It never matters.

The hunt always begins again.

And every time, Varog remembers just a little bit more, at the cost of other details.

The Hunt Begins Again.

A shadow shifts ahead.

Jorak sees him move before he hears him—Varog, slipping through the underbrush, eyes gleaming in the low light, muscles taut with anticipation.

He is beautiful.

Jorak has always thought so. Even now, even like this, with blood in their future and death in their past.

For a moment, Jorak does nothing.

Then, he moves.

The undergrowth shudders as he launches forward. Varog reacts instantly, twisting away, but Jorak is ready this time. He pivots, bringing his spear around in a swift arc, aiming for Varog’s side.

Varog dodges—but not fast enough.

The tip of the spear grazes his ribs, carving a thin red line across his skin.

The first blood.

The moment of claim.

Jorak gasps, chest heaving. He has done it. He has—

Pain explodes through his side.

Jorak barely has time to register the knife before it’s buried deep in his ribs.

Varog’s breath is ragged against his ear. “I always see it coming now,” he murmurs, voice low, almost… apologetic.

Jorak’s legs give out. He sinks to his knees, gripping at Varog’s wrist, as if to stop him—but it is already done. The warmth of his own blood spreads across his skin, hot and thick and final.

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He knows this moment. He has lived it before.

And before.

And before.

The world shudders. The island inhales. The air bends.

Jorak barely has time to die before—

Somewhere on a deserted island, a young orc hunts his boyfriend.

Jorak gasps as the world snaps back into place. His fingers curl around the haft of his spear. His knees are bent, his body already in motion. The hunt has begun.

Again.

But something is different this time.

Varog is waiting for him. Not moving, not hiding. Waiting.

Jorak hesitates. His pulse thrums in his throat.

“I remember now,” Varog says quietly. His fingers twitch at his sides, flexing. “Not everything. But enough.”

Jorak's grip on his spear tightens. He wants to believe him. But trust is a risk. The loop is cruel.

“How do we stop it?” Jorak asks. The words taste foreign in his mouth. He has never asked before.

Varog’s gaze sharpens. “The charm. The devil’s mark.”

Jorak swallows. “It’s gone.”

“Not entirely,” Varog says. “It left something behind.”

A cold wind slithers through the trees.

For the first time in countless loops, they do not move to strike. Instead, they stand there, studying one another. Searching for an answer hidden in their blood, their blades, their past.

Somewhere beyond the trees, the tide crashes against the cliffs.

Maybe, this time, the loop will break.

Maybe.

Jorak exhales.

Jorak shifts his weight, his grip still firm on the haft of his spear. The jungle around them remains still, as if the world itself is holding its breath. This moment—this moment—has never happened before.

“I don’t understand,” Jorak murmurs.

Varog takes a slow step forward, unarmed now, his hands loose at his sides. “You tried to make things perfect,” he says, voice steady. “But you used magic to do it. Magic always takes its due.”

Jorak swallows hard. The charm is gone, shattered into dust long ago. But Varog is right—something remains. The loop is not a natural thing. It is a wound in time, one that refuses to heal.

“Then how do we stop it?” Jorak repeats.

Varog watches him carefully. “The hunt is what resets the loop,” he says. “One of us spills blood. One of us dies. And then it starts over.” He gestures to the thick jungle around them, to the looming cliffs beyond. “But we’ve never tried doing anything else.”

A silence stretches between them. The meaning of those words lingers in the space between their locked gazes.

Jorak exhales slowly. “No fight. No hunt.”

“No death,” Varog adds.

It is an impossible idea. Their instincts scream against it. To love is to fight. That is their way. That is their tradition.

But what if it isn’t the only way?

Jorak lets out a slow breath, his heart still hammering in his chest. The spear in his grip suddenly feels heavier than it ever has before. Every loop, every hunt, every kill—they were all attempts to find something perfect, something whole.

And yet perfection had eluded him.

He takes a step back. Then another.

Varog watches him carefully, his sharp features unreadable.

Jorak lifts his spear—then, in a single motion, he drops it.

The weapon clatters onto the damp earth.

For a long, fragile moment, nothing happens.

Then, Varog exhales.

His hands, which had been twitching toward his knife out of sheer habit, relax at his sides.

The jungle does not tremble. The air does not shudder. The world does not snap back.

For the first time in countless loops, the hunt does not begin.

A cautious, hesitant relief settles into Jorak’s chest, but it is not enough to ease the weight of the unknown. They do not know if they have truly broken the cycle. They do not know if the devil’s price has been paid.

But this—this is new.

Varog moves first. He steps toward Jorak and, instead of raising a weapon, he reaches for him.

Jorak tenses—then, slowly, he allows himself to be drawn forward. Their foreheads press together, and for the first time in what feels like eternity, there is peace between them.

“You should have just proposed,” Varog murmurs, a hint of dry amusement in his voice.

Jorak huffs a breathless laugh. “I tried,” he says. “Over and over.”

Varog smirks. “You really are an idiot.”

The insult is warm. Familiar. The sharp edge of their battle-worn love dulled by the weight of all they have endured.

Jorak closes his eyes.

He does not know what will happen next.

He does not know if the loop is truly broken, if time will allow them to move forward.

But for the first time in endless loops, he does not feel trapped.

Whatever comes next, they will face it together.

And that is enough.

Somewhere on a deserted island, two young orcs stand together.

The jungle exhales. The world does not reset.

Jorak and Varog sit together beneath the stars, the warmth of the other a steady, solid presence. The jungle hums around them, alive but no longer hostile. The hunt is over.

For the first time in countless cycles, they are not drenched in blood or locked in combat. There is no knife pressed between them, no spear poised for the kill. There is only the quiet rhythm of their breaths, the whisper of wind through the leaves, the distant crash of the tide against the cliffs.

Jorak reaches for the small leather cord wrapped around his wrist. The golden ring he forged with his own hands glints in the firelight. He swallows hard, his fingers tightening around it.

"I made this for you," he murmurs, voice rough. "Before everything went wrong."

Varog watches him, his golden eyes soft but unreadable.

"I know," he says.

Jorak exhales shakily. "Then let me do this right."

He reaches up, brushing his fingers through Varog’s thick, dark braid, feeling the weight of it between his hands. With careful, reverent motions, he ties the golden ring into the strands, securing it there. A symbol of his love, his devotion, the promise he has tried so desperately to make real.

Varog does not speak, but his hands move in quiet response. He pulls a second ring from the pouch at his belt—weathered from time, beaten from countless loops, yet still whole. The one Jorak had meant to give him so many lifetimes ago.

Slowly, Varog weaves it into Jorak’s braid.

Their hands linger, resting against each other’s hair.

“It’s done,” Jorak whispers.

Varog nods. “We are bound.”

And then, at last, they allow themselves to truly be.

The fire flickers low, casting shadows across their entwined limbs. The night cradles them in its embrace as they consummate their union in the way it was meant to be done—not in blood, not in battle, but in love. Beneath the moonlight, skin against skin, breath against breath, they finally have what they fought so long to achieve.

Perfection.

Jorak wakes to damp earth beneath his knees.

His fingers curl around his spear.

His breath is ragged. His heart pounds.

No.

No, no, no.

His chest is still warm from where Varog had touched him. His lips still tingling from where they had kissed. His body still aches from their union. It had been real. It had been perfect.

And yet—

The jungle breathes.

The scent of damp earth and salt fills his nose.

The distant tide crashes against the cliffs.

Birds scatter from the canopy, startled by something large.

Something dangerous.

Something hunting.

Jorak’s grip tightens around his spear. A cry builds in his throat, something raw and broken. He lets it loose, a furious, grief-stricken roar that shakes the trees around him. His muscles coil, rage surging through his limbs as he hurls his spear forward—driving it into the nearest tree with all the force he can muster.

The wood splinters, the shaft snaps.

It does nothing to stop the ache in his chest.

He staggers back, hands trembling, breath ragged. It was supposed to be over. They had broken the loop. They had won.

So why—why—

A sound in the trees.

Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Familiar.

Jorak stiffens.

His pulse hammers.

Through the tangled shadows of the jungle, golden eyes flicker.

A shape moves. A hunter.

Somewhere deep in the forest, steel whispers against leather.

Jorak exhales sharply.

Somewhere on a deserted island, a young orc is hunted by his boyfriend.