Azahir was born to two tribes who once ruled the northern wilds with honor and blood — one human, one orc. His birth was a symbol of unity, a pact forged by the river that split the land. His mother, an orc matriarch, fierce and proud. His father, a hardened chieftain of men. They did not love each other — but they respected strength, and so Azahir was raised on fire and frost.
Then the southerners came — with gilded armor, silver tongues, and false promises of “progress.” They didn’t conquer with blades. They conquered with culture.
The fire pits were replaced with hearths. The warriors were buried in books and laws. The tribes were taught shame.
Azahir’s mother died within weeks of submitting. “Infection,” they called it. The elders knew better — they said it was an omen. His father refused to kneel, and for that, he died beneath the headsman’s axe. Azahir followed him, fists raised in defiance.
They didn’t kill Azahir. They used him.
Twenty-five years of “service” in the Civilized Armies. Forced to the front lines, first as a footsoldier, then as a beast they could unleash when diplomacy failed. No recognition. No freedom. Just blood. He wasn’t a man — he was a war dog with a chain around his neck.
But Azahir watched. He learned. Not just how men die — but how they rule.
When his sentence ended, they gave him a medal. He left it on the barracks floor.