The Crimson Blades Arrive

The wind, a perpetual mourner on these plains, whipped dust and the scent of old blood around Borgen. He worked with a grim efficiency, his massive hands sifting through the detritus of a recent, brutal skirmish. Broken shields, dented helms, the occasional discarded dagger – these were the treasures he sought, items he could trade for food, for a scrap of cloth to mend his worn tunic, for the fleeting hope of a life beyond the endless cycle of death and scavenging. The bodies, still warm in some places, were a grim reminder of his own precarious existence. He avoided looking too closely, yet his eyes invariably snagged on a pale, unseeing gaze, a shattered limb, a stain that spread like a dark flower across the earth. It was a grim harvest, but it was his. And it kept him alive.

A low growl rumbled in his chest, not of anger, but of a deep, gnawing loneliness. Other scavengers, smaller, quicker, furtive creatures, rarely ventured this far when he was present. His sheer size, the unnatural bulk of him, was enough to send them scattering like rats from a prowling cat. They called him names, whispered behind cupped hands – ‘ogre spawn,’ ‘troll-kin,’ ‘monster.’ He heard them, the barbs finding their mark, but he had learned long ago to let them slide. What else could he be? He remembered flashes, fragments of a life before this desolation: the warmth of a hearth, the murmur of voices, a hand, smaller than his own, clasped tightly in his. Then fire, screams, and the chilling silence that followed. The Strangers. The word itself was a raw wound, a constant ache beneath his ribs. He knew nothing of them, only that they had brought ruin and left him, Borgen, alone.

He hefted a dented breastplate, its surface scored with the marks of desperate blows. It was good steel, he could tell, but too heavy for him to carry far without a pack. He’d have to leave it. A sigh, a gust of air that stirred the dust at his feet, escaped him. He was only thirteen, but the world had aged him beyond his years. His frame, however, was a testament to something else. Something that had pulled him back from the brink more times than he could count. A searing pain, a gaping wound, the chilling embrace of death – and then, a slow, agonizing mending. It was a secret he kept even from himself, this uncanny resilience. He didn’t understand it, this constant, silent battle within his own flesh, but he was grateful for it. It was the only thing that truly set him apart, the only thing that allowed him to endure.