Chapter 7: A Place to Call Home

Brethus was a city of many faces—the rich lived in gold-lined towers, the poor in shadows and filth. But in between, in the streets where adventurers gathered, a different culture thrived.

Here, it wasn't about birth—it was about coin, skill, and reputation.

No one cared if you were human, beastkin, or even an exiled orc—as long as you could fight, trade, or entertain, you had a place.

But old grudges still ran deep.

And orcish exiles? They had to fight twice as hard to earn their keep.

Nowhere to Stay

"That's the fourth one," Druth'Roc muttered, his shoulders tense. "You'd think we were carrying the red death."

Ghaz'Rok sighed, adjusting the strap of his axe. "Let's try another."

They had spent the last two hours trudging from inn to inn, each rejection stinging a little more than the last.

The Silver Stag claimed they had no rooms left—even though Ghaz had seen an attendant hand out keys to a pair of drakins just before them.

The Wayfarer's Rest had a sign reading "No Greenskins, No Trouble" nailed to its entrance.

The Gilded Mare simply slammed the door in their faces.

At first, Ghaz'Rok told himself it was just bad luck.

By the fourth rejection, he knew better.

Druth'Roc's tusk twitched. "I swear, one more door slams in my face, I'm taking it off its damn hinges."

Ghaz'Rok placed a firm hand on his brother's shoulder. "And that'll help how?"

Druth'Roc huffed. "Might make me feel better."

Ghaz'Rok smirked despite himself. "Sure, but it won't get us a bed."

He glanced around the streets. Night had fully fallen, the golden glow of lanterns making the city seem warmer than it truly was. The streets were alive with movement—humans, beastkin, dwarves, and elves moving through the night like a living tide.

And yet, despite the city's size… they felt out of place.

Orcs weren't meant for city life.

They were warriors. Raiders. Mercenaries. Beasts of war.

Not customers.

Not residents.

Not people.

For the first time since they arrived, Ghaz'Rok truly felt the weight of being an exile.

"...We need a new approach," he muttered.

Druth'Roc raised a brow. "Like what?"

"Like finding an innkeeper who doesn't give a damn about race."

Druth'Roc snorted. "Good luck with that."

Ghaz'Rok glanced down the road. Past the polished taverns catering to wealthy adventurers and merchants, past the run-down shacks barely standing on their foundations…

And there it was.

A squat, stone-and-wood building, smoke rising from its chimney, the sign above the door carved with bold, rough letters.

The Broken Fang.

"...That one," Ghaz'Rok said.

Druth'Roc frowned at the sign. "Sounds promising."

Ghaz'Rok grinned. "Or it means we'll get stabbed in our sleep."

Druth'Roc chuckled. "Either way, better than freezing out here."

And with that, they pushed open the door.

The Broken Fang

Inside, the air was thick with roasted meat, spilled ale, and the faint metallic scent of old blood. The wooden beams were scarred from past fights, and the walls bore hunting trophies from every race.

Above the bar, an engraved iron plate bore the inn's motto in dwarvish runes:

"No Kings. No Gods. Only Coin and Steel."

A philosophy that suited adventurers just fine.

Behind the counter, the burly dwarf innkeeper wiped down a mug with a rag that looked older than some patrons. His beard, streaked with gray, was braided in three thick silver strands—indirectly telling you he can take on three dwarves of his level.

Ghaz'Rok dropped two silver coins onto the counter for six nights without meals.

The dwarf raised a bushy brow. "Not bad. Thought you green-skins were always broke."

Druth'Roc grunted, crossing his arms. "We work."

The dwarf grinned, showing gold-capped teeth. "Good. Got one room left. Two beds, no fleas."

Ghaz'Rok nodded. "Good enough."

As the dwarf scooped up the coins, Ghaz'Rok leaned forward. "You know any good blacksmiths in Brethus?"

The dwarf's one eye narrowed. "Looking for weapons or work?"

"Work."

The dwarf let out a short chuckle. "Hah. You don't look like the hammer-swinging type, orc."

Ghaz'Rok smirked. "I'm not. I'm looking for someone skilled enough to craft something special."

The dwarf tapped his fingers on the counter, considering. "Depends on what you're after."

Ghaz'Rok hesitated, then glanced at Druth'Roc's missing arm.

"Prosthetics," he said.

The dwarf's grin faded. He set down his mug and folded his arms.

"You don't ask for something like that lightly," he muttered. "Not in a city where a crippled warrior is a dead one."

Druth'Roc's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Ghaz'Rok met the dwarf's gaze. "I don't care about the city's ways. I care about my brother. If there's a blacksmith who can forge something better than a stump, I need their name."

The dwarf exhaled through his nose, stroking his beard.

"...There's one," he finally said. "But she's expensive. And she doesn't take jobs from just anyone."

Ghaz'Rok's ears perked up. "Who?"

The dwarf leaned forward.

"Her name's Velga Ironbrand. A forge-master from the Ashen Peaks. Works with mithril, adamantine, and even enchanted alloys. If anyone in Brethus can make a limb that moves like a real one, it's her."

Ghaz'Rok nodded. "Where do I find her?"

The dwarf chuckled. "She owns Ironbrand Forge in the South District. But if you go knocking without a good reason, she'll throw you out herself."

Ghaz'Rok smirked. "Then I'll just have to give her a reason."

The dwarf grinned. "Heh. Good luck with that, orc. You'll need it."

With a room secured and a lead on a blacksmith, Ghaz'Rok and Druth'Roc settled into a dark corner of the inn, two wooden mugs of ale in front of them.

Ghaz'Roc took a long drink, slamming his mug down. "Tastes like piss."

Druth'Rok took a sip. It was strong, bitter, and burned down his throat.

"...Could be worse," he muttered.

Druth'Roc gave him a sideways glance. "You always like human drinks?"

Ghaz'Rok smirked but didn't answer.

The human part of him missed Earth.

The orc part missed the tribe.

And now, both those worlds were gone.

No hospital.

No tribe.

Just him, his brother, and a city that barely tolerated their existence.

But maybe, in Brethus, he could find out who he really was.

For now, he had two goals.

Find Velga Ironbrand.

And survive.