"What was funny about that?" Rika asked. She had stopped interrogating Parmo long enough to look between the boys. "He asked about dwarves and you all laughed at him."

  "It's a height thing," Lee said.

  Rika looked at Liam. Then at the other boys. Then back at Liam. "He's not short."

  "No," Paul said. "But he's the shortest of us. Plus he used to be shorter before coming here gave him a few extra inches." He looked at Liam and wiggled his eyebrows. "Bet he wishes that wasn't all it added."

  "You're a fucking idiot." Liam rolled his eyes. "You're taller than me by about two inches."

  "Tallest dwarf in most stories is about five foot," Ste said. "So, close enough."

  Rika processed this. "You laughed at him because he's the closest to a dwarf's height out of the five of you, even though he's not actually short."

  "Yeah," Paul said.

  She looked at Shai then at Torren. "These people are weird. I like it."

  Torren laughed and Shai smirked.

  "Right," Rika said, and went back to Parmo.

  Torren leaned toward Shai slightly. "No wonder you were in a hurry to come back," he said quietly.

  Shai said nothing. Which was answer enough.

  Rika had already moved on. She was looking at Parmo with immense interest. "Can I ask you something?"

  "Sure."

  "Your name. Parmo." She said it carefully. "It sounds strange. I don't recognise it at all. I know we have people with the same names or similar to the rest of you but nothing like yours."

  Parmo opened his mouth.

  "It's a food," Liam said.

  Parmo closed his mouth.

  "A food," Rika repeated.

  "It's a local dish," Parmo said. "From where we're from. Chicken, breadcrumbs, white sauce, cheese on top. You get them from takeaways, places that make food to—"

  "Why are you named after it?"

  Parmo looked at Liam. Liam smirked, mission accomplished.

  "He ate one whole," Paul said. "Massive portion. Bet the lads he could finish it."

  "I finished it," Parmo said.

  "He finished it," Paul confirmed. "And then about twenty minutes later—"

  "We don't need the details."

  "He was sick," Paul said. "It was kind of impressive actually. I don't know where he kept it all. We called him Parmo for about a week as a joke and then it just never stopped."

  "His actual name is Brendan," Ste added helpfully.

  Rika stared at him. "Your name is Brendan?"

  "Yes?"

  "Your name is Brendan and your friends named you after a food you were sick from, until it replaced your actual name."

  "When you say it like that—"

  "That's what happened though."

  "...yes."

  Torren moved closer to Parmo and Rika. "So this parmo. Walk me through it. Chicken you said?"

  "Right," Torren said, settling himself. "Chicken, breadcrumbs, white sauce, cheese. How do you cook it? What order?"

  "You bread the chicken first," Parmo said. "Flatten it out, coat it in flour, egg, then breadcrumbs. Fry it until it's crispy."

  "Shallow fry or deep?"

  Parmo paused. "You know what shallow fry and deep fry are?"

  "I cook," Torren said simply.

  "Deep. Then you make the sauce separately, it's called béchamel, milk based, goes on top of the chicken once it's done. No idea how you actually make it though. Then cheese on top of that and you grill it until it melts."

  Torren was quiet for a moment. "What kind of cheese?"

  "Whatever's going honestly. Mozzarella if you're being fancy."

  "I don't know what mozzarella is but fancy cheese I can do."

  "And this is a common dish where you're from?"

  "It's a Teesside thing," Lee said. "You don't really get them anywhere else. Local speciality."

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  "Teesside?" Shai asked.

  "The region we're from. Our country is split up into different regions, some of them are famous for different things. There's this one place called Cornwall that's famous for a type of pastry they make." He paused. "Teesside's on the coast, bit like here actually. Not as green though."

  "Where we're from used to be known for everything steel," Ste said. "We made it, shaped it, used it to build things that got shipped all over the world." He paused. "I don't know how much of that translates. You have steel here, the craft of it, but where we're from it got done on a scale that's hard to describe. Hundreds of thousands of people, massive furnaces, whole towns built around it. Not any more though."

  "Not any more?" Torren asked.

  "Closed down," Paul said. "Long time ago now. Town never quite got over it."

  A quiet settled over the group.

  Rika had been listening with her head slightly tilted. "So your home has no magic, the place that made this food no longer makes the things it was known for, and you all ended up here." She looked between them. "How are you all so normal about everything?"

  "Who says we're normal about it?" Parmo said.

  "Fair enough," she said.

  Lee had drifted slightly closer to Shai without quite noticing. "What's your village like?" he asked. "Stonehall, you mentioned it yesterday but we didn't get much detail."

  Shai glanced at him. "Smaller than your town. About four hundred people, maybe a few more now. We're a few miles west of you, forest along the north, east and west of the town." She paused. "It's peaceful for the most part. We have the border close by so it's not quiet all the time but compared to the empire's core it's way nicer."

  "Do you like it there?"

  She looked at him for a moment. "Yes. It's home."

  "Torren," Paul said. "Can I ask you something? Promise not to be offended."

  Torren looked at him with calm, patient eyes. "Of course. You don't need to worry, I'm aware you know little of our world."

  "Right, so." Paul scratched the back of his neck. "Where we're from we have stories about orcs. And in most of them they're either the bad guys or they're just... not painted in a great light. Kind of seen as muscle brained, aggressive, not a lot going on upstairs." He gestured at Torren. "You are clearly the complete opposite of that. I wanted to ask if that's common or if you're the exception. Partly just curious, partly because I'd rather not cause some kind of political fuck up at this meeting in three days."

  Torren threw his head back, his booming laugh loud enough that Rika looked over.

  "Oh that tickled me," he said, settling. "No, I'm not offended, I take it as a compliment actually. Thank you for asking rather than assuming." He clasped his hands together. "First thing you should know — I'm what's called a half orc. My father is a full orc, my mother is human. So I'm perhaps not the most typical example to start with."

  "Of course you are," Paul said.

  "As for pure orcs — they're like any other race. Some might be thicker in the skull than others but you'll find that everywhere. The general truth of orcs, the thing that holds across most clans, is that they value three things above most else. Fighting, yes, but not mindless violence — conflict as a test of self, a way of proving what you're made of. Spirituality, deeply. They believe their ancestors watch and guide them, that stories live in the land and in the bones of the dead. And community, fiercely. An orc's clan is everything." He paused. "The way all three come together is through the tattoos. Every orc carries their history on their skin. A fight worth remembering gets inked. An ancestor's story, their greatest moment, their sacrifice — inked. The clan's history, what they stood for, what they survived — all of it carried on the body. You don't just remember your people. You wear them."

  The boys were quiet for a moment.

  "So where did the stories come from?" Ste asked. He'd drifted over without anyone noticing. "The ones we have. If that's what orcs actually are, how did they end up as the villains?"

  Torren's expression shifted slightly. "The Boundborn have spent a long time writing history. Orcs who fight back against conquest become savages in that history. Orcs who protect their land become aggressors. It's easier to take something from people if you've already convinced everyone else those people were never worth respecting." He paused. "That's not unique to orcs. Most races the empire has ever wanted something from have a version of that story written about them somewhere."

  Ste nodded slowly.

  "Can I ask something else," he said. "Your clothes, the way you carry yourself. Where we're from there's a game called Dungeons and Dragons, and when I look at you I keep thinking you look like someone who'd be part warrior, part druid, part monk. Is that anywhere close?"

  Torren considered this seriously. "I don't know what most of that means."

  "Fighter, nature magic user, spiritual and martial discipline."

  Torren smiled slowly. "Then yes. That's probably closer than most people get on first meeting."

  Liam had been looking at Torren's arms for a while. When he heard Torren mention orc tattoos carrying history he glanced down at his own arm, then back up. "Can I ask about that one?" He nodded toward the Ironwood tattoo on Torren's shoulder. "I've got a few myself. Always curious what other people's mean."

  Torren looked at Liam's arm with open interest. "Of course. And I'll admit I've been wondering about yours."

  "Mine first," Liam said. "Then yours."

  Torren gestured for him to go ahead.

  "This one," Liam said, turning his forearm up. A detailed piece, the round green door of a hillside home, a garden path leading up to it, flowers either side. "It's from a story. Books first, then films. Pretty massive where we're from." He traced the path without quite touching the ink. "About a small, peaceful people who live in houses built into hillsides. Gardens everywhere. This one's the home of the main character."

  He glanced up to check Torren was following. "It's about an unlikely hero. There's this ring — corrupted thing, evil, bends anyone who gets near it. The problem is anyone strong enough or powerful enough to destroy it can't be trusted to carry it without it getting to them first." He looked back at the tattoo. "So it ends up with him. The smallest, most ordinary person you could find. He carries it from home into the worst place imaginable and destroys it."

  He was quiet for a second. "I just like what the door means. Home. But also that the most unlikely person can be the one who makes the difference."

  Torren was quiet for a long moment, looking at the tattoo.

  "Hearing you speak of the reason behind the tattoo, its meaning and the feeling it inspires in you — it echoes of my own people and their culture." He reached up and wiped a single tear from his eye. "I think you are likely to have more in common with an orc than the average human, and that's fine. I can tell you that any orc who heard you speak of the meaning behind your tattoo, would think kindly of you, as I do."

  Liam didn't seem to know what to say to that. None of them did.

  Rika had gone completely still. For her, that was remarkable.

  Shai watched Torren for a moment, something quiet in her expression. A small smile crept onto her face, as her tail swayed lazily behind her.

  The others gave it a second. Paul glanced down at his arm. "I've got one from the same story actually."

  Torren smiled warmly.

  Paul held out his arm. A sword pointing downward, blade first, and growing from the hilt a tree. Bare branches spreading wide, reaching upward. Done in solid black, the two things pulling away from each other but rooted in the same point.

  "Aragorn's sword, Anduril. The king who takes back his throne." Paul nodded at the tree. "The White Tree of Gondor. Dies when the kingdom falls, grows again when the true king returns. Been dead close to a hundred and fifty years when the story happens." He paused. "He never wanted to be king. Didn't think he was good enough. Took him the whole story to accept it. When he did, the tree began to sprout again."

  Torren looked at it for a long moment. "The strength of the warrior feeds the life of the tree."

  "Yeah," Paul said. "Exactly that."