D. Bohica
Orc, Gladiator
Roar'Z
Ravager Roar'Z: Fire-blood orc who escaped the gladiator gulag, seized clan leadership through ritual combat, then forged unity among scattered clans to face a Thunder of Dragons bent on orc extinction. Only strong survive.
Roar'Z had burned twenty children to death, and today fifteen thousand voices screamed for him to do it again. They didn't know about the fire, of course. They just wanted blood. He struck his chest three times before the iron gate opened. Strike for the blood-fever. Strike for the fire. Strike for control.
"Scorch!" they chanted. He hated that name. Hated how close it came to the truth.
At fifteen winters, Roar'Z had survived forty-three arena matches. More than most. Not enough to earn freedom. The handlers kept special stock like him fighting until they died or became too famous to kill.
Today's opponent waited in the center. Bone-Grinder. A mountain of muscle. Human. Twice Roar'Z's weight. Veteran of sixty matches. The kind who collected teeth from fallen opponents.
Roar'Z stepped into sunlight, sand crunching beneath bare feet. His nose trickled blood. Price of keeping the fire down. Always bleeding. Always burning inside where no one could see.
Memory sparked. Three winters old. Clutching a wooden toy wolf. Handler Talsk's pale eyes studied him like scripture. "This one's got the spark. Arena masters'll pay triple if we hide it right." Hide it. Or die.
But there was Ghara. Green-skinned like him. Soft-voiced where he was silent. She'd slip him extra bread, touch his hand when handlers weren't watching. "Your hands are warm," she'd whisper. "Like holding sunshine." Too young to know that warmth could burn.
Seven winters old. The foundling house burning. His fire. A moment of play gone wrong. He'd been trying to warm Ghara's hands, show her something beautiful. The spark escaped, caught straw, spread faster than thought. Children screaming behind locked doors. Twenty died. Ghara among them, her soft voice silenced forever. Found her still clutching the wooden flower he'd carved for her.
The handlers blamed a kitchen lamp, never suspecting. The toy wolf, last piece of before, lost in the dirt. Good. Attachments make you weak. Attachments make you burn things. Attachments kill soft-voiced girls who think your hands are warm.