Sunlight streamed through the arched windows of the royal library, illuminating dust motes dancing in the golden rays. Two figures, silhouetted against the light, huddled over a massive, leather-bound tome.

Astar, barely seven, traced a finger across the crude illustrations depicting hulking figures with tusks, glowing eyes, and weapons forged from bone. His brow furrowed, lips forming a silent 'o' of wonder.

"Look, Ard!" he exclaimed, pointing at a particularly gruesome illustration. "They're fierce! Imagine, teeth like daggers, skin green as moss, and eyes like burning coals!"

Ardariem, his older brother, leaned closer, peering over his brother's shoulder. His expression, usually placid, held a flicker of amusement.

"They're just stories, Astar," he murmured, his voice soft, almost hypnotic. "Legends whispered by scared villagers to frighten children."

Astar's eyes widened. "But Father's advisor, Master Elderon, he said…"

"Master Elderon tells stories," Ardariem interrupted, gently closing the book. He placed a reassuring hand on Astar's shoulder, a gesture meant to soothe, not comfort. "Stories meant to entertain, to spark the imagination. Orcs aren't real, little brother. Never were, never will be."

Astar chewed his lip, his gaze lingering on the closed book.

"But the illustrations…" he whispered, unsure.

"Imagination, Astar," Ardariem repeated, his tone laced with a subtle, underlying command. "Nothing more. Besides, even if they did exist, they'd be…simple creatures. Dumb beasts, driven by instinct. Easily dealt with."

Astar's brow furrowed, worry replaced by confusion.

"Dumb? Like…a puppy?"

Ardariem smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. "Exactly. Imagine, Astar, a prince, surrounded by guards, powerful and brave. Could a silly, dumb beast truly harm a prince?"

Astar pondered this, his gaze flitting between his brother's reassuring smile and the closed book.

"I suppose not," he finally agreed, a hint of doubt lingering in his voice.

"Exactly," Ardariem confirmed, squeezing his brother's shoulder. "A prince is always safe. Always protected. Remember that, Astar. Always."

***

Fifteen years later

In a silent giant chamber, King Norbiel, his face pale and tired, sat propped up in his heavy velvet cushions.

"You're sure you won't take more guards, Astar?" he rasped, his voice thin.

Astar smiled, placing a reassuring hand on his father's arm. "Father, the path to Ar is guarded, heavily. No harm will befall a simple prince on a diplomatic visit." He flexed his fingers over the soft, jeweled handle of his father’s ceremonial sword. He wasn't a warrior, not like his eldest brother. But he carried the sword as a symbol. A symbol of his lineage.

Ardariem entered the room, his long brown hair falling over his eyes. He stood silently by the window, observing them with a still gaze.

"Promise you'll be careful, my son," King Norbiel mumbled, his breath catching in his throat. A star of dampness bloomed on his brow. "This alliance is…"

"Of paramount importance, Father," Astar finished, his grin softening as he met his father's eyes. "I understand."

"Indeed," Ardariem said, his voice low and detached. "Go, little brother. Make our kingdom strong. I'll be missing you here, taking care of father as you go on your merry way to a beautiful princess."

Astar frowned slightly but didn't let it show. He knew Ardariem didn't mean anything by his words, not exactly. It was always this way, his words like stones thrown into a pond, generating waves yet producing no enduring impression.

"Until we meet again, Ard," Astar said, offering him a small nod. He crossed his brother's cold gaze with his own, his gaze steady. Then he turned and stepped lightly towards the door.

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Sunlight slanted through the entrance, falling in a warm shaft across the floor ahead of him.

Astar’s retinue bustled around him, packing provisions and readying the carriages. Horses were groomed till they shone, silks and tapestries pressed and draped, every detail performed with the meticulous care that characterized all things in the Kingdom of Free Men.

They traveled in stately procession down the royal road, past fields of perfumed lavender and orchards laden with ripening fruit. Flat, golden plains gave way to rolling hills, dotted with vineyards and scattered with the occasional temple. For days, the air was sweet with the scent of blossoms and the sound of birdsong.

But a change began to creep in.

As days passed and the landscape transformed, the scent of lavender was replaced by the tang of damp earth and a metallic tang, like rusted iron. Then came a new smell, something alien and unsettling; it prickled in the nostrils and clung to the back of the throat. A smell of decay, not of life, but not of death either.

The horses, normally eager and lively, began to snort and paw the ground, their ears flicking nervously. One even reared back, braying in protest. The guards, their brows furrowed, moved closer, murmuring to their mounts in soothing tones. Their hands rested on the hilts of their swords.

The sky, usually a brilliant azure, grew a shade darker, though it was still early afternoon. The cheerful chatter among the retinue had died down, replaced by hushed whispers and the creak of tightening reins. The air thickened, filled with the strange odor that grew ever stronger.

Shadows seemed to lengthen and deepen.

A knot tightened in the pit of Astar’s stomach. They'd reached the edge of something wild. Unease radiated off the surrounding hills, chilling despite the persistent heat.

Their path became treacherous, forcing their procession single file along rocky paths. Deep chasms yawned beside the road, choked by thorny bushes, and icy-looking rivers barred their passage, demanding dangerous, makeshift bridges.

Astar saw fear flicker in his guards’ eyes, and that fear was a mirror reflecting back his own burgeoning terror. They'd lost track of the familiar path, days ago, caught in this shifting, alien landscape, feeling lost.

Then, in the distance, it began. Guttural growls, deep and echoing. Grunts of anger. Scrambling sounds followed by desperate, strangled screams. The clang of metal used to craft heavy, dangerous things. The sound of fiery animals was also heard.

“Wild dogs," someone hissed.

Another guard choked on a whispered oath.

Fear, cold and sharp, froze Astar in place. Even the captain of the royal guard, Kaelan, a stoic mountain of a man, paled, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword.

"We weren't supposed to get this near the orcs…"

Astar's heart pounded. He wanted to flee, turn back, and race toward home.

“Stay close, Prince," he growled, forcing Astar against the back wall of one of the carriages, shielding him with his body.

“Stay here! Don't move!" Kaelan yelled, thrusting Astar’s younger servants behind a towering stack of silken tapestries.

Chaos erupted. Astar squeezed his eyes shut, a muffled roar swallowed up by screams and clashing metal.

Orcs burst into the place.

Towering, savage figures, muscle rippling beneath crude armor. Their eyes gleamed, eyes that hadn’t seen sunshine in lifetimes. Their bodies emitted a smell of something that was natural, but not sentient, like dirt and roots of poisonous plants, a potent, primal aroma.

Their weapons flashed – crude axes, swords of bone, vicious, spiked clubs.

One orc, monstrously larger than the rest, smashed its war club onto Kaelan's shield. Sparks flew, bouncing off his gleaming armor. His shield, thick oak, shattered.

Terrified by the hideous noise of a breaking shield, Astar dared open his eyes, peeking out between the silks.

The giant orc moved through the fight, a whirlwind of muscle and rage. Each blow, effortless. Each swing a death sentence.

One guard fell. Another. Blood splattered onto the once-pristine silk tapestries, staining the luxurious fabric crimson.

Gravely hurt, Kaelan groaned, a dying animal, staring up at his killer. Then, his head lolled sideways, lifeless.

The giant monster lumbered toward Astar's carriage, the most luxurious one. His massive, scarred hands smashed against the doors, ripping splinters from wood.

The orc easily kicked open the door, scattering gilded trinkets, silks, and jewels across the floor. Astar’s breath hitched, his fear turning icy cold. The orc's dark green gaze fell on the prince.

Astar met his eyes.

The giant orc gasped, an animalistic sound. His eyes, usually cold and predatory, widened, reflecting a flicker of something akin to awe. He'd seen humans before, countless ones, butchered, broken, enslaved. But none like this.

Astar, huddled beneath the silks, looked fragile, almost ethereal. His blond hair, usually styled in intricate braids, was tousled, strands escaping to frame his pale, tear-streaked face. His blue eyes wide with terror, reflecting the carnage around him.

A strange, unsettling feeling coiled in the orc's gut. Anger? Frustration?

His massive hand, scarred and gnarled, clenched into a fist. Images flashed through his mind, violent, primal, fueled by a rage he couldn't comprehend. He wanted to crush, to tear, to…

But what?

Astar's beauty, so unexpected, so alien, twisted something inside him. It wasn't fear, nor hatred. It was something raw, untamed.

His gaze locked onto Astar's, holding him captive.

A choked sob escaped Astar's lips.

The orc reached out.

His fingers, thick and rough, gently lifted Astar's chin, tilting his head upwards.

Astar flinched, but didn't struggle.

"Quiet," the orc rumbled, his voice deep, raspy, not human, as if a giant tree could talk.

Then, he scooped Astar onto his broad shoulders, ignoring the prince's muffled cries.

Turning, he strode out of the carnage, leaving behind the dying, the wounded, the fallen.