In the small border town of Greyfort stood an inn. It wasn't large or luxurious, and there was nothing about it that would linger in a traveler's memory. In truth, it barely stood out from the other buildings at all. From the outside, it looked tired and poor, pig bladders stretched thin across the windows instead of glass, walls of dried mud brick patched with straw, and a roof that sagged here and there like an old man's shoulders. It was hardly the kind of place a weary traveler would dream of at day's end.
And yet, appearances deceive.
The inn "The Sly Halfling" was the beating heart of Greyfort. The owner liked to boast that its "unique charm" drew the crowds, though most would say it simply benefited from being the only inn for fifty miles. Either way, business was good, and the owner's belly showed it.
On the day our story begins, The Sly Halfling was louder than ever. It was Saturday, and the townsfolk had gathered to drink away their week's wages, to gamble, sing, and forget. But beneath the laughter and the smell of ale, there was another reason for the noise that night.
The great war between the Duchy of Gormoran and the Order has ended, at last, in a fragile truce. After the siege of Gateran, young Prince Vaidotas had broken the Order's armies and forced them to the peace table. His terms were harsh: all lands seized by the Order returned, and ten percent of their yearly wealth paid in recompense. The realm rejoiced, and even Greyfort felt the echo of distant victory.
So the little inn was alive with celebration, its rickety beams filled with laughter, gossip, and song, the humble stage upon which our tale begins.
But not all laughter that night was joyful.
Among the crowd sat one who did not join the cheer.
He was a half-orc, broad and battle-scarred, his heavy frame wrapped in a leather zhupan worn soft by years of war. A faded golden belt still marked him as a knight of noble blood, though his eyes told a harder story. They were wolf-grey and restless—eyes that had seen too many deaths to count. A scar traced his cheek like a pale road leading nowhere.
He sat alone in the far corner, back to the wall, facing the door. Even in a room full of drunks, no one dared to sit too close. His stillness was unsettling, too deliberate, too quiet. The firelight danced across his face, and now and then it caught in his eyes, reflecting something that was not quite peace.
He drank slowly. Each sip seemed more like a memory than a pleasure. The innkeeper, seeing opportunity, hovered nearby with forced cheer and a spotless mug. But when the half-orc's gaze lifted to meet his, the poor man forgot every question he'd planned to ask.
At the knight's side sat a boy of perhaps eighteen, a striking contrast to the old veteran. Blond, broad-shouldered, with the easy confidence of youth, he laughed softly to himself, untouched by the grim weight in his uncle's eyes. A squire, perhaps, or a nephew, it was hard to tell. But there was strength in him, and something sharp behind his smile.
For a long time, no one approached them. The murmur of the crowd flowed around their table like a river around stone.
At last, one man's curiosity overcame his caution. He stepped forward, cleared his throat, and spoke.
"So then, noble knight," he said, "you've seen much of the world, haven't you?"
The half-orc's eyes flicked up, as though drawn from far away. His voice, when he spoke, was low and rough as gravel.
"Few who travel toward the capital," he said, "have seen as much as I."
Before the man could answer, the innkeeper, unable to restrain himself, burst in.
"And many more shall see glory soon! The Great Prince Antrodus, uncle to Prince Vaidotas, will wed our fair queen at last! A union to end the Order forever!"
"Excuse me," said the brave man irritably, "you've interrupted the knight."
"There's no harm in a bit of pride," the innkeeper protested, hands raised. "We've earned it!"
"Your head's fit for counting coins, not politics," the man snapped.
The innkeeper bristled, but one glance at the knight's cold eyes sent him hurrying away.
"So," the man said, turning back, "you're bound for the capital, sir?"
"Yes," said the knight after a pause, his tone softening. "We ride for the tournaments. My nephew here will test his strength against the best of Lehistan." His voice darkened. "He's seen enough of battle already, for one so young."
The inn fell silent. All eyes turned to the boy, who only smiled, lifted his mug, and drank.
"Forgive my curiosity," said the man, "but why not return home?"
The knight's laugh came low and hollow.
"Home?" he said quietly. "We have no home."
The man hesitated. "Then… who are you?"
"They call me Macian of Torn," the half-orc said at last. "And this is my nephew, Burgund. Our coat of arms bears the Securis, the blood-axe of Torn. But Torn itself…" He stared into the fire. "Torn is no more."
"Seven years ago," Macian began quietly, "Torn was burned to the ground in a raid by dwarven rogues. They left nothing standing, only one old house that refused to burn, its roof so thick with moss the flames could not catch."
He paused, his hand tightening slightly around his mug. The fire crackled, the only sound in the room.
"The boy's mother died that night," he continued, his voice low but steady. "My brother,his father, gathered what survivors he could and, with the aid of a wizard, a distant relative of ours, struck back at the rogues. They burned the raiders' camp to ashes…"
Macian's gaze drifted toward his nephew, "But my brother did not return," he said at last. "He fell in that final raid.
"What did you do after that?" the man asked softly.
"I did not know what to do," the veteran replied, his voice heavy with memory. "Fortunately, our relative, the wizard I mentioned, who is, in fact, the head magician of the Araneum Nebularum, the wizarding gathering whose headquarters are here in Greyfort, was kind enough to rent out Torn… or rather, what remained of it. I took the payment, bought some gear, and set the boy,he was only eleven at the time, upon a horse. Hearing of the war in Gormoran, I took him there." Macian paused to take a sip of beer
"We fought seven years for Gormoran," Macian said. "We earned gold and scars in equal measure. Now we go to see the prince's uncle wed the queen, to witness what peace looks like, if such a thing still exists."
A murmur of sympathy ran through the listeners. Then one man asked, hesitantly, "And the war? You saw victory?"
Macian's eyes glimmered with a weary pride.
"Victory," he said. "Yes. Seven times the Order tried to take Gateran, and seven times they failed. But don't be fooled, victory leaves its own scars. The Order calls itself keeper of peace, yet its peace is written in blood. They burned forests, slaughtered the unarmed, drove men to madness and exile. And now they pay for it."
He leaned forward then, his voice lowering.
"You ask what the Gormorans are like? Feisty, yes, but not fools. Years of war with orcs taught them to fight from the shadows. Light armor, quick strikes. They melt into forest and bog where knights in iron sink and die. In open field, they're crushed. But in the forests…" He smiled grimly. "In the forests, the Order learned fear."
He lifted his mug once more, the firelight glinting in his scar.
"And that," he said, "is how wars are won, by those who refuse to die where they stand."
"The Order has good soldiers," someone said.
Macian gave a dry laugh. "Good? Not quite. Their strength lies in steel and numbers, not in skill. They march shoulder to shoulder, locked tight like pieces of iron, each man encased from head to toe. You can barely see the dullards eyes through the slits in those helms. They move as one, slow but unstoppable."
He leaned back, taking a long drink before continuing.
"The Gormorans, now, they fight light. No heavy armor, no polished shields. They strike fast, vanish faster. They attack with hunger in their eyes. But when steel meets skill, it's hard to pierce a wall of iron. So the Gormans bleed, and the Order stands. That's how it always begins."
"And the knights?" someone asked. "Are they all from the Order?"
"Not all," Macian replied. "Many noble guests fight at their side, lords and heirs from the western realms who call themselves keepers of peace. They come for glory, for gold, for their names to be sung. But peace?" He gave a low, bitter chuckle. "Peace is just another word for conquest in finer clothes."
"Which warriors are the best of them all?" asked another voice from the crowd.
"That depends on what you mean by 'best.'" Macian set down his mug, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"The elves of Elkengrod, no one alive can match them with the longbow or the longsword. The dwarves of the Empire are unmatched on foot; give them a hammer or an axe and they'll hold a gate till the world ends. The orcs of the Blood City fight like the storms that raised them wild, brutal, unbreakable."
He paused, his tone darkening.
"And the humans…" A faint frown crossed his face. "We're quick to learn, slow to master. Good with any weapon, but true masters of none."
Before anyone could speak, the door burst open with a sharp crack.
Every head turned.
A cold gust swept through the room as a herald stepped inside, cloak snapping behind him. His boots were caked with road dust, his breath still steaming from the night air.
"Innkeeper!" he called, voice ringing clear above the murmurs. "By order of His Majesty's court, prepare your finest room! The king's brother, Lord Podus, will take lodging here tonight!"