The farm sat snugly in a clearing that looked distinctly like a Trunian invasion force had forgotten to finish the job, a patch of land where the forest stopped and hills mumbled to each other in the distance, their slopes wrapped in leafy woods that made the trees look like they were conspiring. A patch of land where a large river snaked its way through, washing up all kinds of detritus on its banks.

Like Denor, the previous week.

In the middle of this pastoral scene stood Curan, a man whose hair had long since turned the color of tired clouds, evidence of far too many winters and far too few cups of tea. He leaned on his walking stick with the practiced grace of someone who’s made a lifestyle out of not falling over. His sons, oblivious to their father’s silent triumph over gravity, herded cattle in the distance, while Curan did what every sensible old man did after surviving one of Andron VII’s famously treacherous winters: he stared at his green-ish fields and fish-bloated streams with a suspicion that only comes from knowing life was starting to get dangerously good. And everyone on Andron VII knew that ‘good’ was just a prelude to ‘spectacular disaster.’

And speaking of spectacular disasters, Curan’s gaze drifted over to a figure stumbling out of the farmhouse, looking very much like he’d just remembered how legs worked. Denor. The boy had crash-landed into their lives a weeks ago, courtesy of the Gurruk wilds, which had mauled him in the way wilds often do to those who think they can outwit geography. Curan’s daughter had fished him out of the river, more dead than alive, and the local approach to healing—‘clean it, mutter something, and make sure it doesn't bleed anymore’—had somehow managed to bring him back from the brink. But being Denor, and therefore a walking enigma when it came to damage recovery, of course he was going to survive.

And now here he was, upright and looking very confused about his location.

“So, Denor,” Curan called out, squinting in the way old men do when they know something's coming, “fancy a bit of hunting?”

Denor blinked at him, scratching the tangled mess of blonde curls that had clearly staged a rebellion against any comb. “Who are you again?”

Curan sighed with the patience of someone who’d answered this question at least three times already. “I’m Curan. My daughter pulled you out of the river a week ago. Ring any bells?”

Denor shrugged, entirely nonplussed. “Sure, why not.”

Not exactly a ringing endorsement of memory, but Curan ploughed on, undeterred. “Well then, how about it? Fancy hunting?”

Denor stretched his arms like someone testing out a newly repaired machine, then cracked a lopsided grin. “Sounds good. Which way?” He rolled his shoulders as if shaking off bed rest. “There are deer in the hills and wild Aurox in the marshes.”

"Aye, that's right," he said, voice as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "I'd stick to deer, lad. Aurox will flatten you into something resembling yesterday’s breakfast. But best of luck. We could use a change from mutton and beef, anyway."

"Darag got trampled by an Aurox," Denor said, in the way one might mention the color of the sky. "He's dead now."

Curan's frown, already a vying with Ledo’s as a serious contender in the category of ‘deepest frown’, deepened even further into something that could have won awards. "Old Darag? That's just a story for the little ones. You know, to stop them from running headfirst into an Aurox pen." He gave Denor a searching look, as if hoping to find evidence of a brain.

"Okay," Denor replied, the kind of 'okay' that really meant 'I’m not okay at all, but let’s pretend I am.’ He turned on his heel, one hand on his blaster, the other gripping his training sword like a man who hadn’t quite figured out which one he trusted more. With a final nod, he set off toward the farm’s edge, entirely ready to make some questionable decisions.

Curan watched him go, scratching his chin in that thoughtful way wise men do when they suspect a situation is going to go horribly wrong but haven’t worked out how or when. He wasn’t the only one watching. His daughter, Isala, had been keeping a keen eye on Denor ever since the lad had come back from the brink of death, which Curan found both amusing and deeply concerning—particularly as his sons had also picked up on the trend and were now watching her watching him as he watched them.

Denor’s recovery had been quick, unnervingly so, even for an Andronian. On Andron, ‘only the strong survive’ wasn't just a motto; it was the sort of everyday wisdom you’d find, because if you didn’t you’d end up a corpse. But there was more to it than that. The lad had been... odd, even before his injuries had fully healed. His swordplay, for one, had become alarmingly fast. And by ‘alarmingly fast,’ that meant he'd been out-sparring Curan and his sons before he could walk in a straight line. Not that Andronians with their drinking culture worried too much about straight lines—they tended to see them as suggestions, much like 'retreat' or 'diplomacy.'

Something was off about the boy. Curan couldn't put his finger on it, but if the boy needed an outlet for his energy, well, the Gurruks and Trunians would soon be due a visit.

Fighting, to an Andronian, wasn’t so much a pastime as it was an inevitable part of life—like breathing or occasionally being trampled by a wild Aurox. Whether you were on the giving or receiving end didn’t seem to matter much—there was always the opportunity for blood, and where there was blood, there was honor. The two were practically synonymous on Andron, though no one had ever thought to ask whether this might be a problem.

As Curan made his way off the farm, his thoughts performed a series of intricate acrobatics, the kind that could only be managed by a man deeply suspicious of energy walls. He passed through the shimmering barrier with the same sense of discomfort he might feel wearing a shirt two sizes too small. Energy walls were new, you see. Andronians had always relied on more traditional defenses: blasters, orbital cannons, and the kind of bravado that could frighten a mountain into submission. Unfortunately with these Trunians edging ever closer, you needed more than just a good sword and an overconfident grin.

Most of the settlements now had energy walls, the smarter families had gone so far as to build sanctums, and the particularly paranoid had even laid out proper killzones. But Curan still found the whole business unsettling. Andronians weren’t much for defense. Retreat? Bah! That was a game for the opposition. A proper Andronian man would be out in the fields, hacking enemies—or possibly wildlife and the occasional neighbor—into manageable chunks. That was the way of things. Anything less, well, it just wasn’t dignified.

This really did explain why they were a dying people, unfortunately anyone who pointed this out ended up in the ‘dying’ column much faster than they did.

***

Denor was doing what Denor did best—wandering off toward the woods with weapons in hand, looking for all the world like a man who’d never even heard of ‘taking it easy.’ He claimed to be fully recovered from his recent scrape with death, and by Andronian standards walking upright counted as fully recovered. Of course, it helped that Andronians were a sturdy bunch, with an impressive ability to shrug off injuries that would leave most people bedridden. Denor wasn’t one for rethinking anything, much less his life choices, but even he had noticed that the past week had been... off. Something was calling to him from beyond these scraggly woods and jagged mountains, and whatever it was, it probably didn’t involve staying on this forsaken chunk of rock much longer.

He was convinced—mostly by his own thoughts, which were notoriously unreliable—that he had left something, or someone, behind. Not just behind the trees, mind you, but out there. Somewhere in the vast expanse of space filled with glittering planets, peculiar alien civilizations, and the sort of fabulous riches his grandfather Tycho swore were out there. Never mind that Tycho had also once claimed to have seen a space dragon during a particularly strong bout of drink. Denor missed that old man. He missed him right up until his memories came rushing back with the force of repeated blunt force trauma to the head.

He stopped in his tracks. “What am I doing out here? I need to get back to Charan and Gella and the others!” he exclaimed.

The tree he was addressing had absolutely no opinion on the matter, which was pretty standard. Trees, in Denor’s experience, were terrible conversationalists.

But still, the unknown was out there, waiting to be conquered—or, failing that, at least irritated beyond belief. Andron VII, his home planet, was widely regarded as one of the most backward, unwelcoming places in the galaxy. Its main exports were grudges, feuds, and a stubborn refusal to die. Most Andronian men spent their lives engaged in the cheerful pastime of trying not to be murdered by their neighbors, and if you managed to avoid that fate, you still had to contend with the winters, which seemed determined to starve you into submission. Occasionally, a few Temrit raiders would swing by for a spot of slave-taking, but Andronians, in their infinite stubbornness, tended to choose death over slavery. This naturally led to the Andronian solution for survival: Have children. Lots of them.

Denor, however, had exactly zero interest in doing his part for population control.

None of this was currently troubling him, though. What was troubling him—apart from his half-baked plan to get off this rock—was the goat he was hunting. The hoofprints were clear in the soft snow, and a tuft of fur caught on a branch confirmed the beast was young, healthy, and, most importantly, destined for a roasting spit. Denor’s mouth watered at the thought of the meal. He imagined himself strolling back to Curan’s farm, goat slung over his shoulders, basking in the old man’s approval.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Okay, so maybe Denor had some unresolved paternal issues at this point, and he could certainly be forgiven for that.

While our hero was busy having an existential crisis over goat meat, something else was happening. Something darker. Something with sharp eyes and sharper instincts. For lurking among the trees, silent as a breeze on a warm day, was a Gurruk. Stocky, light-footed, and with the unsettling gaze of a predator who knows when lunch is about to make a terrible mistake, the Gurruk followed Denor’s every move. But Denor, lost in the tangles of his own thoughts—and more than a little distracted by the promise of roasted goat—was blissfully unaware that he was the one being hunted.

***

By midday, Denor’s patience had paid off, in that peculiar way patience does when it just hangs around long enough to make you feel clever. He spotted a buck, standing proudly in a small clearing as if it had been auditioning for the role of ‘The Very Fine Specimen’ in some nature documentary. The creature nibbled the grass with the kind of blissful ignorance usually reserved for people who say ‘How bad could it be?’ right before disaster strikes. People like Gella. Denor also didn’t bother to question how a goat’s hooves had carried him this far—fate had a tendency to be strange, and so did goats.

The buck was in fine form, all plump from the winter feast, with a glossy coat and antlers still trying to shake off the last bits of velvet like someone in a new jacket that hadn’t lost its tags. Denor, slipping into hunter mode, began creeping forward, his steps the kind of measured and silent that only comes from years of training—and a whole lot of patience for crouching in bushes.

When the buck lowered its head, Denor moved. When it raised its head, he froze. It was a very drawn out game of Simon Says. The thing’s eyes were sharp, but its brain was apparently on holiday. As long as Denor remained statue-still, he might as well have been wearing an invisibility cloak, which, sadly, he wasn’t. Yet. But no matter—he was good at this now. Practically a master of stealth! No one could sneak up on him anymore. At least, that’s what he told himself.

Closer, closer… the moment was nearly there. The buck dipped its head again, and Denor took aim with the blaster, preparing for the kind of shot they write songs about—if people wrote songs about deer-hunting, which they generally didn’t. The bolt flew, swift and sure, and in an ideal world, it would’ve struck perfectly behind the deer’s ear, a clean and merciful hit.

In the real world, however, Denor was Denor. The bolt ricocheted off a stone, bounced off a branch, and somehow—through a combination of fate, luck, and an impressive amount of physics—lodged itself between the buck’s vertebrae. The deer collapsed like it had just received a rather pointed invitation from the gods to stop being alive. No flailing, no death throes—just a dramatic, one-hit wonder. Denor darted forward with his sword, ready to administer a merciful blow that would’ve involved a lot more hacking than mercy. But, as it turned out, the buck was well beyond the need for further assistance.

So, with a sigh and a muttered curse, he set to the grim business of skinning the thing. Halfway through, though, a sound behind him froze his hands mid-cut.

Denor spun around, knife in hand, to find a creature leaning against a tree as casually as if it’d been there since the early hours of the morning. He was shorter than Denor by a good foot, but built like a mountain goat on steroids. The skin was the deep, rich brown of walnut wood, the hair pitch dark, and the eyes had that gleam of something that’d seen too many fights and enjoyed more than a few of them. Denor’s stomach did a slow somersault when he spotted the blood-streaked spear propped up against the tree, leaning just as casually as its owner.

A Gurruk. And not just any Gurruk, but the kind that made Andronians, like Denor, wish they were literally anywhere else. The Gurruks were ancient enemies, and Denor was rapidly remembering why that was very inconvenient just now.

“Carelessness costs lives, Andronian,” the Gurruk said, in a voice that managed to sound like it wasn’t in any hurry to kill you—because it knew it would, eventually.

This upgraded the creature from a he to an it, and Denor was beginning to realise this wasn’t the first time he had seen this Gurruk.

“I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t kill me,” our hero pointed out. “I’m kind of busy here.”

The Gurruk grinned, a sharp-toothed smile that cracked his face paint like old mud flaking off in the sun. “Brave words, but you know better. Or have you already forgotten your lessons?”

Denor gritted his teeth and turned back to the carcass. “I… never speak to strnagers?”

The Gurruk kicked away the training sword and blaster with a casual disregard. “Never leave your weapons out of reach.”

“Oh yeah, that’s a good one. Can I have those back now?”

The Gurruk's grin widened. "Pity you didn't inherit his common sense."

“Ledo said that common sense took one look at me and decided not to bother.”

He gave a chuckle that could be best described as 'knowing'—the kind of chuckle that implies a dangerous amount of wisdom. “Ah, must be a woman clogging up that dense noggin of yours. But don’t think that’s an excuse, lad. Women, clever creatures that they are, don’t much care for corpses. And by all rights, any other Gurruk would’ve skewered you by now.”

Denor still had no idea what this Gurruk was talking about, but he wished that he’d stop. Couldn’t he have just been a sinister monster and taken Tamet’s Heart and never seen him again.

If the incident in the cave afterwards taught Denor anything though, it was that sometimes, even sworn enemies find themselves in the same stew pot, and it’s best to keep things simmering gently, without any unfortunate bubbling-over incidents.

“I remember you now!” Denor cried. “You’re that Gurruk that took Darag’s heart after I had absorbed some of its power.”

“A fine buck,” Ghurmain said, not commenting on the boy’s recognition, and using the same tone you might use to comment on a pleasant afternoon.

“Yes, it is,” Denor agreed.

There was a grumbling sound from deep within the Gurruk’s stomach.

“I killed it myself you know, there definitely wasn’t any rocks or branches that helped.”

The Gurruk rubbed its stomach and licked its lips, which would have been horrifying mere minutes ago before it decided to talk.

Denor, getting the hint, glanced at the steaming heap of entrails with a resigned shrug. “Help yourself. Can’t carry it all anyway.”

Ghurmain, being a Gurruk of simple but direct tastes, crouched down and snatched up the deer’s liver with both hands, promptly devouring it in a manner that suggested he hadn’t heard of cooking and wasn’t particularly interested in the concept. Denor, having learned when to pick his battles, quickly turned his head. Ever since his incident in the swamps the Gurruk’s dining habits remained something he would never quite get used to.

“How did you find me?” Denor asked, pausing to swing his blunted training sword at the carcass with a grace and subtlety that truly matched the carcass he was hacking at.

Ghurmain grinned through a mouthful of liver. His face was painted with blood, though whether by accident or intention was anyone’s guess. “Old valley trick. The blind mountain folk, bless their simple souls, haven’t twigged to it yet.” He wiped his chin on the back of his hand, further smearing the blood, which dribbled onto the bear claw necklace proudly strung across his chest. The gleaming claws clattered softly against his oiled skin, which had the general sheen of something that had just been dipped in a barrel of grease. Add in the boar-tusk bracelets on both arms and the wolfskin cloak—complete with a wolf head perched on his own head, still frozen in a snarl—and subtlety was not Ghurmain’s strong suit.

But, of course, subtlety was not a prized trait among the Gurruks. No, in Gurruk culture, if you were a hunter worth your salt, everyone within a two-day march ought to know about it, and you needed to be bedecked with half a forest’s worth of kills.

Denor finally managed to fold the deer’s hide into something that resembled a bundle, albeit a bundle that looked like it was about to spring apart and take flight at any moment. He heaved it onto his shoulders, and felt a cracking noise that probably wasn’t healthy.

“Well, looks like it’s back to bed for me after this,” he commented, having painfully overestimated his recuperative powers.

Ghurmain, having polished off his liver with the enthusiasm of a thing who believed in eating as a competitive sport, let out a belch that echoed off the nearby trees and may well have caused a few leaves to drop out of sheer terror. “That’s the power of the heart settling with the curse in your core. It’ll take a while before they figure things out.”

“I don’t have a core,” Denor said, “I’m still at Foundation level and my power level is one.”

The creature’s expression was impossible to read beneath all the blood and paint. “Your core is still forming and you’re murdering Trunians and Gurruks by the dozen?”

Oh yeah, Ghurmain might take exception to the whole ‘murdering his kin’ thing. Whoops.

“Yes?” Denor ventured.

“Fine, I’ll help you carry it,” he declared magnanimously, slinging the carcass over his shoulder without so much as a grunt of effort. Blood smeared down his already impressive collection of grease stains.

“Can you help me get a core?” Denor asked.

The Gurruk’s eyes turned black. “Yes, power level of one, but that Foundation will be changing soon.”

“You mean I’ll get stronger?”

Ghurmain laughed. “Sure, it won’t be pretty and I think it’ll sneak up on you, but when you absorbed the power of the Heart of Tamet, it accelerated a process that was already beginning.”

“I’m going to be a hero!” Denor declared to the world.

The creature smiled at him, like he was a puppy that had learned not to defecate on the carpet. “Where are we headed then, oh great hero?” he asked, with the casual air of someone who wasn’t already dripping in enough dead animals to start his own butcher’s shop.

“To an Andronian farm,” Denor replied, as though this were a perfectly reasonable thing to say to a Gurruk. “Not far. We’ll make it before sundown.”

“Denor? Are you sure that’s a place you want to take me?”

Denor looked at the fanged creature, the nemesis of his people, dripping with blood and Tamet knows what else. “Why not? The beds are really comfy.”

“You might make it,” Ghurmain grunted, adjusting the venison as if it were a minor inconvenience. “But I’m not setting foot on that farm. Your kin would kill me the moment they laid eyes on me. No, once we’re close enough to see the smoke from the chimney, we part ways. Again.”

“But we’ve just met! How will I find you again?”

The Gurruk laughed, a strangely wet noise. “I’ve been tailing you since the river, I have your scent. You’ll be just fine.”

Denor nodded in silent agreement. It was hard to argue with the creature, especially when previous encounters with Gurruks involved trying to kill them at every available opportunity.

"That’s great! Now, which way was it to the farm again?” Denor chirped, full of the boundless optimism that only someone who hasn’t yet faced an angry cow could muster.

Ghurmain groaned, a noise that sounded like the last rattle of an avalanche, and pointed a clawed finger in the general direction of the farm.

"Fantastic! Off we go then!" Denor took a jaunty step forward, ready to lead his companion on what was clearly going to be an entirely uneventful stroll.

Except Ghurmain wasn’t moving. In fact, he seemed to have rooted himself to the spot like a particularly disgruntled oak tree.

“Denor…” The word was heavy with the sort of patience only found in those who have resigned themselves to traveling with the likes of Denor Kara.

“Yes?” Denor replied, all sunshine and naivety.

“Your weapons. You left them back in the clearing.”

There was a pause as Denor blinked in mild surprise, then his brain pieced it all together.

“Oh. Right.”