The ashlands had a way of swallowing stories — but not before staining them into the ground.

For weeks, word had spread along caravan routes: a broken trail of orc dead cutting through canyon and dust, bodies left where they fell.

The orcs bore the markings of the Iron Maw Clan.

The trail led deeper into the red canyons, where heat clung to the stone and the wind carried the faint iron scent of blood long dried.

An adventurer followed it. Picking up the valuables and weapons that he found of use.

The last body lay half against a rock, armor split, axe fallen just out of reach. Larger than the rest. Red hair matted dark with blood. A skull-belt at her waist. The mark of her clan had been torn off.

*The adventurer knelt and reached his hand for the belt.

Her grip snapped around the wrist like a trap, fingers iron-tight despite the blood loss. Her eyes shot open, burning, furious, alive. Despite having fought the entire Orc hunting party alone, she still had some fight left in her.

A low, animal growl rumbled from her chest.

“Touch it again…” she rasped, voice rough with blood and dust, tightening her grip just enough to hurt.

“…and I'll take you down with me.”