Bertha, the old Ford truck my dad had given me, sat in the driveway like a hot pink monument to bad taste and excellent engineering. She was lifted, battered, and completely reliable. I pulled the step stool from behind the seat and used it to climb in, collapsing and returning it to its place after I’d settled. At five-foot-two, I needed the boost.
The headlights cut through the rain as I pulled onto the main road. Bramble Creek rolled past, dark and quiet. One general store at the four corners, the lights off. The gas station was still open but empty. The diner glowed amber at the far end of town, and I caught a glimpse of an orc heading inside. Seven feet tall, shoulders hunched against the rain. He looked tired. Maybe he worked nights.
Orcs had been here long enough that seeing one wasn’t strange, just new. I noticed the height more than anything, the way they moved through human-sized areas like they were making an effort not to take up too much space.
The creatures they’d brought to the surface were equally fascinating. Someone had published a field guide last year that was sparse on details and heavy on warnings about unpredictable behavior and unknown biology. I’d read it twice, but I still felt unprepared.
The turnoff came up fast. I nearly missed the gap in the trees and the sign, but slowed enough to turn onto the dirt roaddisappearing into the dark. The rain had turned it into a mess of ruts and standing water. Bertha didn’t care. She plowed through, suspension creaking, mud spraying up against the wheel wells.
Dad had bought this truck the year I graduated from vet school. He’d said,You’re going to need something that can get you places other people can’t go.
He’d been right about that. Right about most things, actually. The truck. The clinic. Coming home instead of taking a job in a city where I couldn’t sink my toes into the grass.
He’d died three years ago, and I still heard his voice sometimes.
You’re going to be just fine, Laina-bug.
I wasn’t sure he’d accounted for orc kingdom creatures when he’d said that, but I figured the principle still applied.
The headlights picked up the fence line first, at least ten feet tall and made of thick metal mesh, running into the trees in both directions. I slowed. The fence kept going, vanishing into the woods like it circled something large.
The gate was equally substantial and made of steel. A structure that made you wonder what it was keeping in.
I rolled down the window. Rain blew in sideways, soaking my sleeve as I leaned out to punch in the code on the panel. The gate shuddered and swung open with a low mechanical groan.
I pulled through and stopped, watching in the rearview mirror until the gate settled with a boom that traveled through the truck frame.
Make sure it latches behind you,Brovish had said.
I got out to test it and found it solid, then climbed back into Bertha and sat with the engine running, staring down the tunnel of trees ahead.
I put the truck in gear and drove.
Thick pine and old-growth hardwoods pressed in close, their canopy filtering the rain into a softer sound. The smell of mud, wet bark, and crushed leaves came through the vents.
I saw something lumbering in the ditch along the right side of the road. It scrambled up onto the road and crossed about thirty feet in front of me.
I slammed on the brakes. Bertha fishtailed, mud spraying, and the creature kept going, low, fast, and bear-sized. The headlights caught dark spiky fur, horns that curved like a mountain goat’s, and a tail dragging through the mud, segmented and as thick as my thigh. Then it was gone, crashing into the trees on the side of the road.
My hands had locked on the wheel. I couldn’t even begin to describe what I’d seen.
I eased off the brake and drove Bertha forward.
Another shape, smaller this time, moved along the edge of the tree line on my left, keeping pace with the truck before darting between the trunks, veering into the dark.
My breathing went shallow.
I’d been a vet for five years, treating everything from dairy cows to red-tailed hawks to someone’s illegally imported sugar glider. I’d seen thousands of animals, and I could tell you their genus and species and common behavioral patterns before they’d made it through the front door.
I sat with my foot on the brake and stared at where the smaller creature had vanished. Rain drummed the roof. My hands were shaking.
Until now, I’d never felt the gut-punch of seeing something completely outside my understanding.
The feeling was so sharp it almost hurt.
I kept going.
The road curved, and the trees opened up. A two-story building sat ahead, its stone foundation dusky gray, withweathered, slab-log siding. I’d read the orcs who’d built it had cut the trees here on the site, milled them, and stood the frame themselves.
