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Newsletter
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- 04/15/2026
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Broken Hate, Broken Heart - 1. Chapter 1
Thokk had his arms crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed, and was glaring sullenly at the women who had gathered for the tithe selection. He had advanced so far in his studies that he had been allowed to accompany his master on the journey, but his enthusiasm had long since faded.
He hated the surface. The sun burned his skin if he wasn’t careful and dried it out; the healthy light green had given way to a dull gray-green. His fur-stripe was dirty and smelly. There was mud everywhere. It stank. It was loud. Rain was cold and unpleasant. Traveling was extremely unpleasant.
And the people… even louder and stinkier than the world already seemed to be, like rosy larvae crawling out of a carcass.
He wrinkled his nose, letting his gaze drift over the women. They smelled of far too many things—of excitement and fear and vanity, of harsh soap and pungent herbs and even more pungent perfumes. He missed the cool neutrality of stone and the delicate scent of moss and mushrooms.
The women looked soft and fragile, not as though they could bear warriors. A fleeting thought crossed his mind that his own mother had once stood in a marketplace and been scrutinized, but his memories of her were faint. His father’s seed had clearly prevailed over his mother’s blood, for Thokk was a fine, strong orc.
A gaunt young woman trembled and stiffened as Gash—Thokk’s master and leader of the shamans on this tithe journey—leaned down to listen to her heartbeat. Her skin was so pale, seemed so thin, that one could see her veins. The sight repulsed Thokk and made him wonder if the orcs who were given a consort could honestly be aroused by such a thing.
Running his fingers over his own tusks, he pondered to what extent they were committing a sacrilege here. Ever since the Old Mother had gone beneath the mountain to rest and heal, the female bloodline of the orcs had died, but mating with humans could certainly not have been the Old Mother’s wish.
A grunt escaped him, earning him a disapproving glance from Priest Khartikk, but before he could truly be reprimanded, Gash turned to them.
“Come, Thokk, and take a look at the women.”
“Of course, Master. Would you like to hear my assessment?”
“For now, you must observe; we’ll talk about it tonight.” Gash smiled invitingly, and as much as he was reluctant, Thokk approached the women.
~
The sun still set early at the beginnings of spring, and so Thokk sat by the fire in the late afternoon, trying to relax. It didn’t really work. The side facing the fire was too warm, the other too cold; he had nothing to read, and his company consisted of intensely focused shamans and priests, zealous servants, and stoic warriors. Frustrated, he fiddled with the hem of his tunic until Gash settled down beside him.
The Master held the silence for quite a while before finally saying, “What’s on your mind, Thokk? You look like an approaching rock slide.”
Thokk sighed, his tense shoulders slumping. “The tithing selection, Master.”
“Well, speak.” Gash made an inviting gesture, his voice gentle. “What did you see today?”
Thokk sighed again, but this time it had a growling undertone. “Weakness, Master, I saw nothing but weakness.”
“Oh?”
“The women look as if the first breath of winter could break them. They seem impure, unworthy. Such weak flesh should not be welcome beneath the Green Mountains. They look like larvae, not honorable consorts in the spiritual sense of our ancestors.”
Gash remained silent for so long that Thokk turned to face him. A deep thoughtfulness lay in the old shaman’s furrowed face, but when he raised his gaze, astonishment took its place. “Your perspective surprises me. Most young men are fascinated by the delicacy of humans, the softness of their skin. For many, this fragility is something precious. Why is it a flaw to you?”
“Because I see no strength beneath it. Some of us—we shamans, or priests, or healers—are often called soft, but when push comes to shove, we’re still strong orcs, even if we wear tunics instead of armor every day,” Thokk replied. “Humans… I see no strong core in them. They’re soft through and through.”
Gash let out a long, thoughtful hum and shook his head. “We need them to survive. Their women. They are our mothers.”
“I know, Master, but if they were truly more than vessels for us—a strength from which we can grow—wouldn’t they then give us back the female blood we’ve lost? Wouldn’t we have had our own women back long ago?” Thokk had never thought about it this deeply before; he left such profound discussions to the priests. But being confronted with the problem changed things.
Gash hummed thoughtfully again. “I see what you mean. But I don’t think we can change anything here and now, or even find an answer.”
Thokk hadn’t expected that anyway, but the deep thoughtfulness on Gash’s face as he patted his shoulder, stood up, and walked away left Thokk with the disappointing realization that Gash had never thought about it before.
Thokk couldn’t sleep. Someone in the communal tent was snoring terribly, someone else was farting regularly, and the waves of stench made him nauseous. He missed his little room with Master Gash.
“It’s not that simple.” Gash’s voice reached his ear, muffled by the thick tent canvas. “I could see him rejecting them all, without exception, without hesitation.”
Was Gash talking about... Thokk?
“Why?” The astonished question came from Khartikk.
“Not out of arrogance or the distorted notions of youth—you know how they can be—but almost with disgust.”
“Disgust?” Khartikk was apparently chewing, for his reply came even more muffled than before and was accompanied by a smacking sound.
“That’s what I’d call it, yes,” Gash confirmed.
Thokk frowned.
“A disgust that could function like a filter,” Gash continued.
“A filter for true strength and purity?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Khartikk grumbled. “Have you by any chance read the writings on the Seeker’s prophecies?”
“Oh,” Gash said, and then “oh! Oh yes. The Seeker of the Hidden Fire. Only those who deeply reject the unworthy can find the truly blessed. The spark in the ashes.”
Thokk’s mouth suddenly felt uncomfortably dry as he tried to swallow, and his skin tingled.
The anonymous fart made the air crackle again.
“The spark that allows our blood to be perfect once more,” Khartikk said, almost solemnly.
“Old Mother, watch over us,” Gash murmured, and Thokk could barely make him out, “Thokk spoke so convinced of the lack of strength…”
“As if he saw only ashes?” Khartikk suggested. After a nonverbal response from Gash, the priest sighed. “Watch him closely tomorrow, my friend; I want to know if there is hope.”
Thokk didn’t understand Gash’s reply because the blood was pounding in his ears. Hearing your name in connection with a prophecy was rarely a good thing, even if this one seemed to be particularly hopeful.
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.