The desert sun was relentless, roasting Charles' back through the sweat-soaked cloak clinging to him. Every step across the blistering dunes sent lances of fire through his legs. His lungs burned with every ragged breath, muscles screamed, and joints threatened mutiny. Thirst and exhaustion tugged at him like chains. One misstep now and the sands would claim him. Alone, he was prey, already half-dead.
And then… steel kissed his neck.
"Look at that… what the sands dragged to my doorstep. A little wounded pup."
The words weren't friendly. The blade pressed against his throat made damn sure of that. Cold metal bit into sunburned skin, dragging a line of fire along his neck. Sweat, grit, and blood stung his eyes. Every instinct screamed: don't move.
Fuck.
"I mean you no harm, sir. If you could just… sheath your weapon?"
Silence. No breath, no shift of weight. Only the steel, cold and precise, pressing closer.
Was this how it ended?
A flicker of memory came unbidden: Orsen, years ago, gripping Charles' shoulder during a sparring session. "Remember, lad—many will try to use you. Pride, fear, hunger… they'll all play you. Learn to read them, or they'll gut you before you even know."
Charles swallowed, letting the memory steady him. Survival had always been about timing, observation, and one stubborn thing: choice.
"Lose your weapons. Slowly. Then we'll talk. No funny business."
Charles nearly scoffed. He'd fought worse with less. If this were one of the chief's men, he might've risked it—died trying. But this one moved differently. Predatory, cautious. Not like a slaver. And he didn't smell like one either.
With a long, deliberate breath, Charles unclasped his belt and let it fall into the sand.
"There. Can we talk now, sir?"
A pause. Long enough for doubt to crawl in. Then, at last, the blade eased away.
Charles turned—and blinked.
A dwarf. Beard, axe, heavy leather. But what caught his eye was the massive longbow slung over one shoulder—odd for a dwarf. Then again, who was he to judge? Dwarves hated slavers. Loved gold. Some had ties to the Free City. Maybe… luck was finally on his side.
"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" the dwarf growled. "Lie to me, and I'll gut you. Sleep easy after."
Fair enough.
"I'm an escaped slave. Heading for the Free City. I was hoping you might… point me the way."
The dwarf's eyes narrowed, studying him.
"You don't look like a slave. Most don't carry enchanted daggers worth more than a village, and that ring… crest's no common trash. So I'll ask again. Who. Are. You?"
A village? That might explain the chief's reaction over the daggers.
"I really am an escaped slave. But… my story's complicated. If you've got time, I'll explain."
The dwarf didn't blink. Permission.
So Charles told him. Start to finish. Ten minutes, maybe less. Funny how little time it took to summarize hell. The dwarf listened, arms crossed, face unreadable.
"I want to believe you," he said at last. "We dwarves help escaped slaves. It's part of our creed. But we're also enemies of the beastmen. I can't risk helping someone who might be working with them."
He paused, eyes darkening.
"My last partner ran screaming the moment I told him he'd be bait. Too afraid to face the Rukh. Coward left me to handle it alone."
Charles' jaw clenched. He'd had enough masters for one lifetime. But starving out here? Or getting dragged back in chains? Alone in the desert? Death was inevitable without a guide.
"You'll do something for me. Dangerous work. Might kill you. If you do it—I'll take you to the city. Maybe even throw in some coin."
"I'm not doing this because you told me to," Charles said. "I do it because I choose to. Got that?"
The dwarf grunted. "Good. You'll need pride to survive what's coming."
"…Fine. What's the job?"
---
Gerart—the dwarf—was all business. No small talk. No warm-up.
The task? Hunt a Rukh—a massive desert bird with talons like spears and a temper to match.
Charles' role? Walk a hundred meters ahead… and act as bait.
Yep. Bait.
"Still want to die? Your call," Gerart muttered.
Charles rubbed his face, exasperated. Maybe the mad bastard was right. If anyone could land a shot under pressure… it was him.
"You better be worth it," he muttered. "Let's go."
---
Half a day later, under the blistering sun…
"Are you sure this bird even lives here?"
"Yes. Shut up and walk."
Charming. And they said dwarves didn't take slaves.
The heat cooked his brain. His boots sank with every step. Each breath tasted of dust and old sweat. He was about to turn around and scream when—
"Skreeeeeeee!"
The cry tore through the silence. A blur of feathers hurtled from the sky.
Charles ran.
The Rukh's wings blotted out the sun, shadow swallowing him whole. Talons slashed through sand, carving furrows with every strike. Dust and feathers whipped into his eyes. Heart hammering, he stumbled, tripped, rolled.
Thwack!
The bowstring snapped. The bird shrieked, hitting him like a boulder. They tumbled together in a whirlwind of feathers, sand, and dust.
"Son of a bitch! It weighs a ton… and smells like—ugh—I'm gonna puke…"
Pinned, crushed, choking on bird guts, Charles could barely breathe. Any second now, Gerart would stop laughing and maybe help—
"Hahaha! You've got guts, boy! Thought you'd scream like a girl!"
"Yeah, hilarious. Now help before this thing crushes my spine."
Gerart finally hauled the beast off. Still grinning, but something softer shone behind his eyes.
"Most folks freeze. You ran like hell. Respect."
Was that… approval?
Clapping him on the back, Gerart said, "You're alright, lad. Hell, I'll even be your friend. How's that?"
Friend? You tried to feed me to a sky demon. At least buy me a drink first.
Covered in feathers, blood, and dust, Charles crawled free with Gerart's help. Alive. And with a guide. Survival, finally, felt possible.
---
"What the hell do you want this bird for?" Charles asked, swatting feathers off his shoulder. "Doesn't look worth the stench."
Gerart grinned.
"The gizzard stone. Birds like this use it to crush bones. Powdered and forged into steel, it makes blades sharper and lighter. Worth a fortune—if you survive to sell it."
He dug through the carcass and produced a rock the size of a child's fist. "Packed. Your cut alone'll feed you for weeks."
Charles' stomach growled. "Yay. Can we eat it?"
That set the dwarf off again.
"You're a born warrior, my friend!"
The meat was tough, greasy, and full of gristle. But it wasn't poisoned, and Charles hadn't eaten anything real in days. He stuffed his face like a half-starved beast, dignity buried under the bird.
Gerart, now in full storytelling mode, wouldn't stop—gossip, jokes, tall tales. Where had the grim killer from earlier gone?
Wiping his mouth, Charles downed a swig of stolen orc wine and leaned back.
"So… how long to the Free City? And how much are you paying me?"
"Four days' walk. Three gold coins. Fair?"
Better than expected. Add that to the bounty, and maybe he could buy a week in a flea-ridden inn. Gerart even offered to sponsor him into the Hunters' Guild. Charles wasn't sure about that—but he'd at least make the dwarf show him around.
"You got clean clothes in that sack of yours?" he asked, eyeing his tattered rags. "These are basically a second skin now. Filthy, sand-filled skin."
Gerart laughed and tossed him a bundle.
"Cloak and shirt. Bit dusty, but cleaner than you. Pants? Too short and way too roomy for the groin. Hahaha!"
Fresh clothes. Almost human again. Or half-human.
All he needed now was sleep.
Gerart settled beside the fire, sack for a pillow, cloak for a blanket.
"We leave at first light. Get some rest."
"It's Charles, by the way," he said. "If you're gonna be my friend, might as well use my name."
"Quit with the 'old man' crap," Gerart muttered. "I'm in my prime. PRIME, you hear me?!"
---
The Free City was four days away. Four days across a desert that had already tried to kill him once. Alone, he would not have survived. With Gerart? He might. And Charles knew—this was just the beginning.