Torlan

The wall surrounding Umbrithar’s capital, Erel’Thun, served a double purpose—keeping the city safe and giving the creatures beyond its reach a chance to roam in peace. It kept dumb mistakes and misfired curiosity from turning lush green fields into a bloody mess, since most city-dwellers preferred to stay well within the safety of their gates.

Not that it stopped the occasional fool from thinking they were some kind of chosen beast-whisperer—like all it took was holding out a hand to become best friends with a wild animal. Torlan had seen that exact scenario more times than he cared to count, and with each one, his faith in the survival odds of any race dropped a little more.

Some visitors just couldn’t resist the urge to pat something that looked like a bison, stood twice as tall, and had horns sharp enough to gut a man clean through. Which, of course, meant he had to deal with the aftermath. Not that he’d signed up to be a gods-damned babysitter—but there he was again, explaining why poking the wildlife was a fast track to losing fingers.

Still, today was blissfully quiet. No gawking tourists, no accidents, no gods-damned questions.

Just the heat, thick and heavy, baking everything under the sun until even the creatures were too sluggish to stir.

He’d claimed one of the empty stalls as his refuge, sprawled out on a worn blanket beside a canine-like creature that had decided his chest made for a perfect pillow. The egg he’d been tending lay cradled in its thick fur, safe and still. Torlan, on the other hand, was half-conscious and miserable—heat-drunk and twitchy every time that damn tail flicked at him. His swats were lazy, mostly ineffective, and usually ended with more tail to the face.

Quiet. Warm. Almost peaceful.

Exactly the kind of moment that couldn’t possibly last. The faint crunch of steps in hay and gravel cut through the stillness like claws on metal — no one was supposed to be here. His instincts bristled, screaming intruder, and he snapped fully awake, just in time to catch sight of the unwelcome visitor.

“Oi. Unless you got somethin’ with scales or claws needin’ fixin’, I ain’t takin’ walk-ins.” was the first thing he bit out, pushing himself to his feet with the egg tucked safely in the crook of his arm. Beside him, the canine stirred, letting out a low, grumbling whine at having lost its pillow.