The community that had once consisted of 68 inhabitants had now dwindled to only 31.
When they reached the middle of the mountain pass, the village chieftain, Urag e'Zogtar, spoke:
"We only have a few options left."
The villagers fell silent. Not out of shock, nor fear. It was simply realization and acceptance. The children, who still could not suppress their emotions, began to cry. Their parents stood beside them, holding their hands. The children who had lost their parents in the incident still had members of the community caring for them.
"I know a place where we can start over."
The adults let out breaths from their lungs, as if the pressure of reality had vanished for just a moment.
"It lies northwest of here. I know it will be harder to grow crops there."
Everyone already knew what weighed on his heart and refused to come out.
"However… we unfortunately no longer have as many Orcs to feed." "Do we have suitable clothing for the new climate?" asked a worried Orc woman whose name apparently was Morgra i'Veshka. "We don't have enough for everyone here. We'll equip the children first, then the sick and weak."
It was an unspoken law that it was the duty of the strong and powerful to protect and help the weak and less powerful.This law held immense importance in this godless world.
"We'll pool our savings together and spend them on better clothing at the next merchant."
The unity of this village was truly… remarkable.
The group spent the rest of the day walking along the mountain range toward the northwest.
The sun slowly began to set. Once more, the world turned orange-gold for a fleeting moment. The fire burned calmly at the center of the scene, casting a pulsing light over the dusty ground. The three wagons they had barely managed to bring with them stood around it in a wide circle, their dark silhouettes half-hidden in shadow, half-submerged in the flickering glow. The wooden wheels stood still, the horses unharnessed and lying together in exhaustion. Occasionally the flames rose higher, bathing the wagons in golden reflections before letting them sink back into darkness. Between the wagons, the night gathered — heavy and silent — while the fire glowed on tirelessly.
Samuel had been laid down near one of the wagons by Gustov.
The adult Orcs gathered around the fire and began cooking and roasting food while speaking about the most mundane things.
"Margot, can you get the meat from the supplies?" asked a male Orc. "I can do that."
Margot walked around the wagon. Her hands brushed across the canvas cover. The tarp was covered in numerous patches and carried a yellowish-brown color that clearly revealed the fabric's age.
"Perfect, thank you very much!" the male Orc called after her.
Margot's lips formed a small smirk before it quickly faded again. She pulled aside the wagon curtains and searched for the crate containing the meat. She knew that if they didn't roast it, it would spoil within a few days.
"They have to be somewhere around here," Margot muttered to herself while searching through one box after another.
Eventually, she found the wooden crate containing the meat.
Taking a deep breath, she knelt down and grasped the crate. The meat inside shifted like a single cold mass. For a moment, she believed the weight would tear her arms from their sockets, until her grip strengthened and she steadied herself firmly on her feet.
The weight itself, however, was not the real problem. Everyone was exhausted by now, Margot included. She brought the meat to the others at the fire, and they began preparing the meal.
Yet the atmosphere was not as peaceful as it seemed. Every gaze was directed toward the human boy. Everyone knew exactly what his kind was capable of. But they also knew that one should not judge someone by their origin or appearance.
The air was pleasant, carrying the aroma of meat and vegetables. By now, the sun had completely set. Several smaller campfires had been built to keep everyone warm.
Meanwhile, Gustov sat beside the boy, waiting for him to wake up.
Samuel's body lay upon a small pile of hay. Small movements became larger ones until he finally awoke. He looked around and found only unfamiliar faces surrounding him. His heart began to race.
Gustov: "Seems like you finally woke up. Don't worry, we won't ask where you come from or what happened."
Samuel's breathing seemed to respond and relax. He took deeper, longer breaths. He felt safe.
grumble~grumble
His stomach interrupted the mood.
Gustov seemed amused: "Hahaha, looks like you're hungry. You're lucky — the food just finished cooking."
Little by little, everyone gathered around the large fire whose flames cast dancing shadows across their faces. Plates were passed around, loaded with steaming portions of a meat-like dish and strange vegetables Samuel did not recognize.
A place in the circle was made for him as well. He sat down beside Gustov and hesitantly reached for the food.
But the moment the aroma touched his tongue, a warmth flowed through him that went deeper than mere fullness. His heart felt light, almost weightless, and for a fleeting moment it felt as though every worry had slipped away. It was more than enjoyment — it was almost euphoria.
He savored every moment.
Gustov: "Looks like you were really starving, haha."
He looked directly at Samuel. His eyes were filled with kindness.
Samuel: "The food is really good… uhm, what should I call you?" "My name is Gustov g'Rock." "Thank you, Gustov. My name is Samuel."
Samuel returned his smile.
The circle slowly began to dissolve as one after another finished their meals and rose from the fire. Voices faded into the night while the first already disappeared into the darkness to sleep. Yet most remained outside; it was difficult to fall asleep.
A group of children gathered around a smaller fire where an elderly Orc sat as well.
"Gustov, what's happening over there?"
Gustov looked toward the old Orc by the fire Samuel pointed at.
"Ah, the old one is called Vorzak h'Kaelor. Once every three days, the village children gather to listen to his stories. You're welcome to join them."
Samuel approached the group, though he kept a certain distance.
"Come closer to the fire, children."
The old storyteller's voice was rough like dry bark. The wind swept through the dark fir trees, and above them stretched a sky full of cold stars. Nobody spoke a word. Even the horses near the wagons had fallen silent.
The old Orc pulled his heavy blanket tighter around his shoulders and stared into the flames for a long while before continuing.
"There are stories older than kings. Older than cities of stone. Older even than the sun itself. This one… is the oldest of them all."
The embers crackled softly.
"In the beginning, nothing existed."
He slowly raised his hand.
"No mountains. No seas. No light. No darkness. Not even time itself. There was only the First God."
The children stared at him with wide eyes.
"No one knows his name. Some believe no mortal mouth could speak it without breaking apart. Others say he never possessed one. For names require boundaries — and the First God had none."
The wind grew stronger.
"He was alone."
The word hung heavily between them.
"For an unimaginable length of time, he was alone. Eons passed like breaths. Yet even a god can eventually no longer endure the void. And so, from his own will, he created two beings."
The old Orc took a stick and drew two lines in the dirt.
"The first we now call A."
He tapped the left line.
"The second, X."
His finger moved to the other side.
"Over the ages, humans gave them many names. Alpha and Omega. Dawn and Abyss. Salvation and Ruin. Hope and Hunger."
The flames cast dancing shadows across the children's faces.
"A was warm like the first sunlight. Wherever his steps touched the empty ground, life, compassion, and peace emerged. Rivers began to flow. Forests grew. Hearts learned love."
The old Orc paused.
"But X…"
The wind suddenly howled between the wagons.
"…X brought the other things."
The children huddled closer together.
"He gifted the world rage. Greed. Envy. Disease. He taught mankind the fear of darkness and the desire for power."
The old Orc slowly gazed into the night.
"But understand this well: neither of them was truly evil. Neither truly good. For the First God had not created them to bring peace."
He struck the stick hard into the ground.
"He created them for battle."
The horses snorted nervously.
"Since the very first moment of their existence, A and X have fought one another. Eternally. Without end. Whenever a child is born somewhere, their hands are already struggling over its fate. When a king begins a war or a stranger offers bread to the hungry — it is merely another blow in their endless war."
The flames burned lower.
"And from this battle… something emerged that should never have existed."
Now the old Orc spoke more quietly.
"While A and X fought one another, light and darkness mixed together. Not for long. Only for a single heartbeat of eternity."
He looked directly into the children's eyes.
"But that was enough."
A spark rose into the night.
"There, where their powers collided, a third being was born."
The old Orc's voice now sounded almost like a whisper.
"It had no name."
No one moved anymore.
"Not because it had been forgotten… but because no one dared to give it one."
The forest itself seemed to have fallen silent.
"For names mean order. They give things a place in the world. But this being had no place."
The old Orc pointed toward the stars.
"It belonged neither to A nor to X. Neither to light nor darkness. And when the First God saw it… something happened that had never happened before."
He fell silent long enough that even the fire itself seemed to crackle more quietly.
"The First God felt neither fear nor pity for it."
Several children held their breath.
"No one knows why. Perhaps he saw in the being the end of his creation. Perhaps something else."
The old Orc lowered his head.
"In the end, he decided not to kill it."
The children stared at him.
"Some believe the First God feared it. Others think the Nameless One is necessary for the world, even if nobody understands its purpose."
Slowly, he ran his fingers along the grain of his wooden staff.
"So the First God dragged the nameless being into the darkness of the eternal cosmos. Beyond all the stars, he sealed the being away — where neither human nor god should ever walk."
The wind carried ash through the night.
"But before he banished it, he took away its five senses."
The old Orc raised one finger.
"Sight."
Another.
"Hearing."
Another.
"Smell."
Then another.
"Taste. Touch."
The children — and Samuel — listened intently to his voice.
The old Orc lowered his hand.
"The First God gave these five senses to five lesser deities. Since then, they have watched over the beings of this world. Through them, you can see, hear, and feel. Through them, you can walk without falling, and even with closed eyes still find your own hands."
The flames cast golden light across his aged face.
"But sometimes…"
Now he spoke more slowly.
"…sometimes one of these deities touches a mortal with their blessing."
The children immediately became attentive.
"Then one of the five paths of the other world begins."
The old Orc drew five circular lines around the glowing embers.
"Whoever walks the Path of Sight can perceive movement in darkness long before others notice it. Some can see truth in the eyes of liars."
He pointed to the next line.
"Those on the Path of Hearing can hear footsteps from miles away or listen to voices even the wind itself has forgotten."
The third line.
"The Path of Smell allows one to sense disease, fear, or blood."
The fourth.
"The Path of Taste can identify poison from a single drop."
Then the next.
"The Path of Touch can feel even the faintest tremors in stone and earth. And if one ascends the ranks of the path, one may eventually even create fire from nothing."
The children sat completely motionless.
"But every blessing has its price."
The old Orc looked seriously around the circle.
"For the farther a person walks upon one of the five paths, the closer they come to the other world — the world beyond what the First God never wished to be found."
The flames crackled dully.
"And some believe that the senses of the deities are not merely gifts…"
Slowly, he raised his head.
"…but fragments of the Nameless One itself."
No one spoke anymore.
Far out in the forest, a single crack suddenly echoed.
The old Orc smiled faintly.
"That is why," he said softly, "you should never follow a voice at night that only you can hear."