Tolki the Mutt. That’s what they call me. Not a boy. Not a man. Not even a human, sometimes. Just a mutt—like a stray dog scraping by in the slums of Thyrmfrost.

I’m a poor, weak orphan. Skin barely on the bone, my fingers are constantly red from the cold or from a fallen warrior's blood. Every day, I wake up before the sun rises and scrape frozen corpses from the stone. Not out of duty, not even for coin—I do it because that is the only thing keeping me alive.

I clean up after battles. That’s simply my life. The stench of guts and steel fill my nose constantly. The crunch of frozen cartilage is a sound I know all too well. My hands are raw. My eyes feel empty. I've seen more skulls split open than I can keep track of, more rib cages peeled apart like rotten fruit. And for all that, no one even looks down at me. They simply ignore me. Except for when they need something scraped up.

I’ve been in fights. If you could call them that. More like training dummies that hit back. Beaten for looking the wrong direction. Beaten for being weak. Sometimes by soldiers. Sometimes by other orphans. Sometimes just by people who needed to let out the anger. I would get thrown into the dirt, ribs stomped, teeth cracked. I never fight back. I just cover my face, wait it out, and get told to go back to cleaning.

And I always do. Because that’s what mutts do.

I ate what I could find. Bread crusts tossed in the mud. Bits of meat stuck to bones buried in snow. Once, I ate half a dried finger. Didn’t realize it until I felt and spit out a nail into my hand.

The only thing I own is a small dagger. It doesn’t look like much, but it has never dulled—not once. It slipped into every crack and corner like it knew what to do. Dried blood, shattered teeth, torn skin—it scraped them all away like they were never there. That dagger is the only memory I have of my family. Not a face. Not a name. Just that blade.

Sometimes, I stare at it and wonder if they meant for me to survive with it… or die by it.

I don’t really have a dream. I don’t wish for more. All I ever wanted was a day off. One sunrise where I didn’t have to wash blood from stone or tear frozen muscle from iron. Just one.

But in sixteen years, that day still has not come.

I awake like I do every other day.

Crawling out of the gutter I sleep in, I gather my rags and sit for a moment, dreading the idea of leaving. If it weren’t for the stench and the rats tearing at my skin through the night, I’d probably stay there all day. But the pit in my stomach drives me to move. Hunger always wins.

The blooded snow crunches beneath my feet as I make my way through town.
And honestly... if it weren’t for the blood, bones, corpses, and the freezing cold, I think I’d actually enjoy living here. It’s not terribly hard to navigate, and I know almost every spot to check for food.

There’s a tavern next to my gutter that tosses out anything expired—or anything that got blood in it.
There’s the small bakery down the road that sometimes gives me bread... if I take enough blows from them first.
And then there’s the dirt arena. If you get lucky after a fight, you can find bones with some meat left on them once the spectators clear out.

Today, I managed to find a moldy, bloodied piece of bread outside the tavern. I barely get a couple bites in before they spot me.

They drag me inside.

A fight must’ve just ended—fresh blood on the floorboards. They hand me a rag at first, then yank it back when they see the dagger at my hip. I get on my knees and get to work. My dagger slips easily into every crack, pulling out blood like it was born to do it.

Takes me just under an hour.

When I finish, I look toward the owner.
Hoping—maybe this time—he’ll show me a bit of good faith.

All I get is a cracked rib and thrown out into the street.

Honestly? That was rather nice compared to what’s happened before.

With no fight in the arena today and nothing in my stomach but old bread and blood, I start walking toward the bakery, dreading what I know is coming next.

That’s when I hear it.

The town crier.

He’s running down the street, shouting something loud and fast. Too far for me to hear clearly.

So I turn.

And I follow the sound.

I push my way toward him through the crowd.

And that’s when I hear it—clear as day.

"A true spectacle! Two nobles will be coming to this village to use its arena! Get to high ground to watch the 100s fight!"

The 100s. Fighters ranked within the top thousand in all of Thyrmfrost. I’d never seen one in person—only heard stories. Only cleaned the messes they left behind. But now… they were coming here.

For the first time in my life, I felt something like excitement. A flicker of hope.

I ran back to my gutter, grabbing everything I could—which was really just an old coat I’d been using as a bed. I wrapped it tight and sprinted toward the arena, brushing shoulders with everyone trying to flee from the nobles’ fight, all hoping not to get caught in the crossfire. I heard curses. Got shoved. Felt a few fists clip my ribs.

“This better work,” I thought. “Or they’ll really kill me next time.”

As the crowd thinned and I got closer, the streets grew quiet. The only sound left was the slow, rhythmic clop of horses’ hooves echoing down the dirt path. And then I saw them.

Two carriages rolling toward the arena—one wrapped in gold, the other in obsidian and silver. They didn’t look like transportation. They looked like temples on wheels—gleaming, godlike, completely out of place here.

My heart pounded. What kind of men lead lives to ride in those?

I couldn’t stop thinking, How do I get one of them to take pity on me? Maybe if they saw how hard I’ve worked, how much I’ve suffered, they’d see some kind of virtue in me. Maybe they’d take me in. Maybe… they’d give me that day off.

The carriages stopped. The doors opened.

From the obsidian and silver carriage stepped a man known as Ulrik of Vundrhall, ranked 576th. A fortress of a man. Arms like tree trunks. He wore light leather armor—the only metal on him was a pair of black and silver vambraces lined with blades. In his hands was a battle axe the size of a door. It looked raw, heavy, and hungry. I could feel it craving blood.

From the golden carriage came the second man—slim, composed, and deadly. He held a longsword so perfect I forgot how to breathe. The blade looked weightless, balanced like an owl in flight. His armor was that of a knight, but adorned with gold and feathers, matching his carriage. Halvard Feathergrave, ranked 627th. His gaze alone could crack solid stone.

They step forward, each stride more powerful than their last. Each entering our pitiful dirt arena. Readying their weapons. I move closer, just to the very edge of the arena, just out of sight. I move behind Ulrik hoping that I will get to see Halvards gaze from his perspective.

They stared at each other. Minutes passed. They didn’t move an inch.

“What are they waiting for?” I whispered to myself.

Then, without a word, they each reached for pouches at their hips. Pulled something out—too small for me to see—and dropped it into their mouths.

Something changed.

The air shifted. The mood turned. My skin prickled. Every hair on my body stood up.

Their bodies began to convulse. Their weapons moved.

I watched as their blades grew into their arms, fusing like flesh and metal had always been one. Their skin warped and stretched.

Ulrik grew larger—three feet taller, maybe more. His axe split in two, and his vambraces fused into his body. His skin turned deep blood red. Then he let out a roar that shook the marrow in my bones. He didn’t look like a man anymore. He looked like a demon.

Halvard’s form changed too. He grew even leaner. Feathers burst from beneath his armor and skin. His sword curved mid-air and began to float beside him, dancing like it was alive. His eyes glowed—piercing, unnatural.

I blinked.

And in that instant, heat washed over me. Not fire. Something deeper—like the blood in my veins had turned molten.

I opened my eyes—and where Ulrik once stood, there was only blood.

His twin axes were at my feet. The stone beneath me hissed with steam. To my left—Ulrik’s head. To my right—his body. Gone. Just like that.

Halvard flicked his blade to the side, spraying blood into the dirt. His feathers vanished. His skin returned to what it was before.

And then… he saw me.

We locked eyes.

“You shouldn’t have seen that, boy.”

His expression twisted into rage. His eyes narrowed. His hand went to his hilt.

I froze. Panic grabbed me by the throat.

Halvard started walking toward me. Sword rising. Steps slow. Deliberate. My heart beat faster with every step.

I looked around, desperate.

Then I saw it—Ulrik’s pouch, still strapped to his corpse.

I dove.

My fingers fumbled at the knot before tearing it open. Inside—three small red pills.

Halvard charged.

I didn’t even think. I swallowed them all.

The world froze.

Everything stopped. Halvard mid-swing. His blade is an inch from my eye. Blood suspended in the air like mist.

And then I heard it.

A voice behind me.

Soft. Powerful. Endless.

“We’ve been waiting for you, my son."