“Please!”

  A shrill voice cried out in the distance.

  Welsh had barely laid down when the plea hit his ears, causing his adrenaline to immediately surge.

  He swung open the door to the sounds of desperate whimpering. He looked to the left. Then sharply to the right.

  It wasn’t uncommon—just one of many distressing noises that carried through the camp. These cries, however, were familiar, and the distant screams made Welsh’s nerves rattle with frustration.

  He hurried between the decaying log buildings of the camp. Like the other camps of the empire, Camp Keldarn was enclosed beneath a large purple dome that shimmered high above. But in its own way, this camp was different. Above the dome, the sky was perpetually dark and streaked with flashes of yellow and red lightning. This gave the dome a much darker, blood-red hue compared to the others.

  As Welsh drew closer to the noise, he noticed they were high-pitched and gravelly, occasionally breaking into sharp squeals followed by pitiful whimpering.

  He huffed in frustration, his blood pumping fiercely throughout his body. He had recognized the source of the sounds—someone was using Lonnek as a ball again.

  Lonnek was a lesser who worked the grounds of Camp Keldarn—a pathetic little creature, even by lesser standards. Small and round, he barely stood two feet tall, with stubby arms and legs.

  This made him the perfect target for Rotundran soldiers and elites. In their downtime, they would regularly hunt him down and play “Lonnek Ball” at his expense. Unfortunately, there was little he could do to defend himself from those who wanted to kick him around the camp, but he did have one thing going for him…

  He was Welsh’s friend.

  Often, those harassing Lonnek would walk away when Welsh approached, but he could now make out Lonnek’s assailants, and Welsh realized this situation wouldn’t be so simple.

  Standing in a triangle, a Rotundran elite and two soldiers were kicking the poor lesser back and forth. Lonnek’s greatest gift was his ability to take a beating, but just because his body could absorb a kick didn’t mean it didn’t hurt just as much as it would for any other creature.

  “Argh!” Lonnek wheezed as one of the soldiers punted him. He sailed clear over the head of his intended target and toward Welsh.

  Welsh lifted his hand into the air, catching Lonnek as gently as he could.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do, Ro’Noke?” Welsh asked, setting Lonnek down close to his side.

  Ro’Noke laughed and turned to face Welsh. Like many of the other elites, Ro’Noke was a ruthless and vicious beast. He had a grotesque appearance, with a ghoul-like face and leathery green skin. His legs were relatively short, but his arms were long and muscular, nearly dragging the ground when he walked.

  “Well, if it isn’t Welsh,” Ro’Noke said, pressing his knuckles into the ground to make a quick turn. “We were just having a bit of fun, weren't we?” he added, directing his attention to the lesser.

  Lonnek, still stumbling from his most recent beating, remained quiet.

  “Leave him be. I’m sure Keldarn could use you somewhere else,” Welsh said, splitting his attention among the three Rotundrans.

  The two Rotundran soldiers, unwilling to test their strength against the elite, stepped aside submissively. Ro’Noke, however, had no intention of backing down so easily.

  “Your sympathy for these weak and feeble creatures will get you killed, Welsh,” Ro’Noke said. “Just like me, you were born to be an elite. You have an empire of entertainment at the tip of your claw. You can play with what you want. You can eat what you want. You can kill what you want.” He leaned back on his small legs and stretched his arms out wide in a display of power.

  Unimpressed, Welsh watched Ro’Noke with contempt. “Kill anything I want, huh?” Welsh took a large step forward. “Maybe I should start with you.”

  Ro’Noke immediately looked to his two companions, trying to gauge their reaction to the threat. Rotundran soldiers were strong, but they were smaller, less skilled, and less gifted than their elite counterparts. Occasionally, a soldier would be brought up from the soldier rank—or rarely, from the lesser rank—but it didn’t happen often. Having been born a lesser himself, Welsh was an exception to this rule. He had a reputation the soldiers didn’t want to put to the test.

  Seeing that he would get no help from his allies, Ro’Noke laughed, clearly uncomfortable. “Welsh,” he began, flexing the muscles throughout his long, limber arms. “I would squeeze you so hard, your bird beak would pop off.”

  Welsh answered immediately. “I’m not so sure you could,” he muttered. “Let’s find out.”

  Ro’Noke shook his head, still sporting a condescending smile. “I don’t have time for you, Welsh. Like you said, Overseer Keldarn probably needs me.” He turned and walked away, stepping between the two soldiers behind him. They fell in step behind their comrade, and Welsh could hear Ro’Noke scold them for their lack of initiative.

  Lonnek had mostly regained his composure and sat down next to Welsh in the dark, ashy mulch.

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  “Thank you again, Welsh. How many times is this now?”

  Welsh sighed. “Too many to count. Are you hurt?”

  Lonnek shook his tiny head. “No. No, I’m okay. You just kind of get used to it. It’s just a matter of time until one of these beasts kills me.”

  “Not as long as I’m around,” Welsh said reassuringly.

  Lonnek smiled. His chubby cheeks balled up on each side of his small face, but the smile soon faded. “Hey, Welsh,” he began, “Why are you so different from the others?”

  Welsh had spent most of his life pondering this question. It wasn’t just his looks that set him apart. His temperament and treatment of others simply didn’t match Rotundran doctrine. For one, he was a beetle eater, with a diet primarily focused on insects, and did not feed on the flesh of humans. But this alone didn’t explain it. Other beetle eaters were among the ranks of the cruel and sadistic.

  Perhaps it was his mistreatment as a youngling that had given him something the others lacked: empathy.

  Welsh had always considered himself different from many of the other Rotundran Elites. As a youngling, he had been teased relentlessly for his appearance.

  While most Rotundran members had skin in various shades of green, Welsh’s body was covered in rock-hard scales that shimmered with every color of the rainbow. Additionally, where most reptilians had a snout or a mouth, the lower half of Welsh’s face was concealed behind a large, yellow beak.

  Welsh reached to his face and gently touched his beak. He used to hate it.

  While his multicolored scales certainly set him apart from other reptilians, it was his beak that truly made him stand out. It was well known that birds had once covered the planet and soared through the skies, but they hadn’t been seen in centuries.

  He could vividly remember other young reptilians calling him names- his free hand clenching in frustration- and even threatening him.

  Fortunately, Welsh hadn’t heard those insults in years. He may have been considered an oddity or a weakling in his youth, but not anymore. His once-meager yellow beak had grown into a lethal weapon, capable of severing limbs and impaling foes with ease.

  Welsh looked down at Lonnek who still waited for an answer. An answer he didn’t have.

  He came from humble beginnings, but now, he lived among the Elites of the Rotundra. His living quarters were a rather large log cabin, which, by now, consisted primarily of wooden logs that had begun to rot. At times, he would run the tips of his claws over the darkened areas of the structure, only to watch the wood crumble into tiny particles, resembling dirt. He would then snort in disdain and shake his head. Why were the Rotundra, the most powerful organization in the world, so content to watch everything decay around them?

  Regardless, he wasn’t well liked. Unlike many of the others, he had no taste for blood or brutality. As he wandered the grounds of Camp Keldarn, fellow Rotundran Elites would pass him, their minds filled with slurs and insults—but few dared to say them to his face.

  “I don’t know,” Welsh responded. “If you figure it out, will you please tell me?”

  Lonnek chuckled, his voice cracking with high-pitched gasps. “Sure. I’ll do that.”

  Just as Lonnek finished his sentence, the duo heard tiny footsteps tapping through the rich, black earth. They both turned in unison to see a tiny Rotundran elite heading their way.

  “Great,” Welsh said, keeping his eyes locked on the creature. “It’s Soralees.”

  Soralees wasn’t your normal elite. Where many elites were large, muscular beasts, Soralees was neither of those things. He was a tiny little creature, not much taller than lessers like Lonnek. However, there was a reason he was an elite.

  Size had nothing to do with what made him such a dangerous foe. Unlike the others, he didn’t rely on his strength. Instead, he used blinding speed and razor-sharp claws to deal his damage. Only a few creatures in the empire could rival his dexterity.

  In addition to being obscenely fast, he had the unique ability to squeal at a pitch that would render most creatures completely incapacitated. It was during these intermittent squeals that he would dart in and out of close range, ripping and shredding his opponents piece by piece.

  “Welsh,” Soralees said quietly, nearly in a whisper. “You’re wanted by the Overseer. He has a job for you.”

  Soralees’ voice was deceptively quiet. His beady eyes, which bulged from the sides of his head, twitched and shivered whenever he spoke, a side effect of his powerful voice. He struggled to maintain the volume needed to carry on a conversation.

  Welsh regularly took small groups of human slaves on expeditions to gather timber. From the blackened earth, disfigured trees grew randomly throughout the camp. These trees—called deadrot—were at the center of Camp Keldarn’s economic well-being. They had multiple trunks that sprang from the ground, leading to limbs that were devoid of leaves year-round. Like the earth around them, the deadrot trees were black and appeared perpetually in a state of dying.

  After thinking for a moment about his instructions, Welsh nodded and asked Soralees if the chopping site was close.

  The elite shook his head. “Not so much,” he said. “It’s in The Orchard.”

  Lonnek gasped, whipping his head up to see Welsh’s reaction. Welsh did nothing. Instead, he took a deep breath and looked in the direction of the slaves’ barracks. “And why are we venturing back into the orchard?” he asked. “I hear it has been overrun by Korvis. Have they been dealt with?”

  “No,” Soralees replied bluntly.

  Welsh clenched his fists in frustration but mostly maintained his outward composure. There were many dangers lurking in the world, even for Elites like himself. Groups like the Kil’torie had become more daring as of late, especially in the tunnels throughout the southeast quadrant of the empire. In his quadrant, however, the Korvis were among the gravest threats.

  Unlike the Kil’torie, who were intelligent and cultured, the Korvis were primitive and savage. While most reptilians fed on humans, there were others who fed on beetles or special forms of vegetation. The Korvis were neither of these things. They were cannibals who fed on other reptilians. They were mostly small and weak, but they were relentless and would gladly sacrifice dozens of their tribe to take down one large elite: it would feed their tribe for months.

  Korvis attacks were rare, but there had been reports of sightings around the orchard. It was a threat that shouldn’t be dismissed out of hand.

  “Why is the Overseer so interested in deadrot from the Orchard? There’s other timber that needs to be harvested—timber that doesn’t involve potentially fighting your way through a Korvis horde.”

  Soralees turned and began walking away. He was always short on words, not wanting to maintain the focus needed for a reasonable volume.

  “Ask him yourself,” Soralees muttered quietly as he returned in his previous direction.

  Lonnek, who had remained quiet throughout the conversation, looked at Welsh with concern. “It’s been a few months since Tonnik went missing. We may be firmly within their hunting window. Are you going to go?”

  Welsh crossed his arms, still watching Soralees creep away. “Orders are orders,” he said before looking down at his friend. “So, of course I am.” He paused for a moment, then added, “And you’re coming with me.”

  Lonnek was startled. “I am?!”

  “I need you. You can sense the Korvis can’t you?” Welsh reasoned. “Besides, would you rather stay here with Ro’Noke and the others?”

  Lonnek sighed, paused to weigh his options, then responded, “...I’ll go prepare,” he said grudgingly.

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