THE TOWN OF Bralden sat nestled in a forest of massive coniferous and deciduous trees. Streets were wide and human-built structures were constructed with consideration to the ancient trees. Its unique nature became immediately clear by the population’s unusual racial composition. Many humans walked the wide main street, as well as a smattering of other, similar races. The pair drew back when a trio of humanoid wolves walked past them. As tall as Doom but more leanly built, the three paused to discuss the two in their growling tongue before they continued on.

Huddled closer to each other because of both the approaching snow storm and the inhabitants’ wary hostility, the pair was at a loss about what to do or where to go. Doom held the edge of his cowl to keep the wind from blowing it back and exposing his face. His eyes were drawn down to Tiwaz when her hand tightened convulsively on his arm. “Ti?”

“I can’t…walk any further,” she whispered. He quickly put his arm around her when her knees gave out. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, cheek pressed against his chest. “So tired. I tried to stay strong, but I can’t—”

“Hey! You two.” Doom looked over sharply at the burly human male approaching them, shifting unconsciously to put himself more between Tiwaz and the stranger. The pungent odor of a forge wafted around the man. His expression was unreadable as he looked the two up and down. “Come with me. It isn’t fit for man or beast out here.” Doom hesitated a moment before following. As the man shoved open the wide, sliding door, the scent of acrid smoke flooded out. He heaved it mostly shut again once they were inside, leaving it open enough to allow fresh air in.

The man returned to the forge, pumped the bellows briefly then took out a glowing piece of metal, ignoring the pair. He hammered it a few times before shoving it back into the fire. The two sat on a pair of large, cylindrical logs along the wall well out of the blacksmith’s way, utterly silent with anxiety. After several minutes, the man walked over, hitching himself onto one of the many workbenches scattered throughout the room.

“The name’s Kerk,” he stated bluntly. “Been calling Bralden home near all my life and the closest thing this place has to a mayor or whatever you want to call me.” He patted an anvil. “Folks have a lot of respect for a master blacksmith. They know. Piss me off, you’re going to suffer for it, indirectly or otherwise. Get along with everyone, generally. Not many humans can say that here. Most don’t get along with the local wolflen, you see, or some of the other stray races that come here.”

“Wolflen?” Doom asked uncertainly.

“Aye. You passed one of their hunting packs coming into town. They like traveling in groups of three to five. Lot of newcomers like to call them werewolves, but they aren’t. What you see is what they are. Can’t say I understand them well, but they tolerate our presence enough to allow us to share their territory with their tribe peacefully. Barely. I keep the townsfolk in line and they keep the town safe from other tribes of their kind when they get in territorial disputes.”

Kerk paused a moment, his keen gaze studying the shivering woman and her massive cloaked companion hovering over her. “Seems you two are in a bit of trouble, eh?” She looked up sharply, her expression hinting at the emotions she tried to hide. “No one with any sense would be traveling this time of year out here.” Before either could react, the man grabbed her forearm, holding it for several heartbeats before releasing her. “Good. Wanted to see what you’d do.”

Doom put his arm around Tiwaz as she held the arm he had grabbed against her chest. “What do you mean?” he growled.

Not fazed by the ominous warning in Doom’s voice, Kerk casually unlaced and removed his own bracer. Both reacted to the familiar, old scars that marred the man’s wrists. “I know what you are, children. I know very well. However, I have seen lots of runaway slaves before. Ones with broken spirits and empty eyes, ones who lash out at everything and everyone. Little more than animals. I don’t have time for those sorts. That kind of healing starts with wanting to heal, believing you can heal. They never do.”

He put the bracer back on, his eyes on it as he laced it back up. “But you kept control. Held still, waiting to see what I was going to do. Your eyes still show the wounds you don’t want the world to see,” he said in a gentler tone. “But you are strong. There is hope for you.” The man crossed his arms when he focused on Doom, waving with one hand nonchalantly. “So, I saw the wolflen giving you odd looks. And you are a big one, so I’m pretty sure you are not a human.”

Doom hesitantly reached up to take the edge of his cowl. After a moment, he finally lowered his hood, then raised his eyes to regard the blacksmith. To his credit, Kerk’s outward reaction was little more than widening eyes. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen one of your kind,” he said after several moments of silence.

“You don’t think I am a demon?” the gromek asked in reflexive shock.

“Feh. Of course not, lad.” He waved to Tiwaz. “Demons don’t help anyone. Why they are called demons to begin with. You are hovering over your friend like a loyal war dog, ready to lay in some serious hurt on the first person who even thinks of harming her.” Doom could not help but smile a little at that. “So, you can’t be a demon. What are you?”

“I am a gromek,” he replied. “My kind is native to the deserts in the Southern Wildlands. Our former master had a…sense of humor.” Kerk looked curious at the thick bitterness in Doom’s voice. “He had me trained to be a woodsman.”

“Ah. Well, that’s a useful trade for up here in the north. It’ll serve you well.” The blacksmith turned his eyes to Tiwaz. “Saw the wolflen were giving you odd looks, too, lass. Confused, like you don’t smell like what you look like.” Tiwaz paled even more than she was, unconsciously leaning into Doom more. “You have high elf blood or something? That isn’t anything to be ashamed about. Them bastard elves still treat every race worse than dirt.”

“No,” she finally whispered. “I…I am a shape-shifter. I can change to a black panther at night.”

Kerk arched an eyebrow. “Natural born, not one of them magical mistakes?” She looked up, nodding though her outright fear was naked in her eyes. “Huh. Always thought shape-shifters like that were legends, myself.”

“You…I was told people kill shape-shifters without question,” Tiwaz said in a small voice.

“In the ‘civilized’ lands, sure,” Kerk stated, derision for what he considered elitist cultures. “Eastern Kingdoms are known for killing anything that possesses magic, even humans. Western Empire? Usually people who are too lazy to wait and see before killing.” He sighed. “Not that there aren’t some here who would be nervous, so I’d suggest keeping your head down.” He could not help but laugh at her expression. “Don’t talk about being a shape-shifter, don’t shape-shift where the townsfolk here can see. No shame being what you are, it’s just more practical until you know who you can and can’t trust.”

The woman nodded, eyes cast down. “Shape-shifters are only legends in the north?”

Kerk waved a hand. “Nah, they’re around, they just stay well hidden. But up here? No cats. Panthers and the like. Heard of rats and wolves and bears, but never cats. From the south, too, I assume?” She nodded. He considered her more, his examination critical. “You do not carry yourself like you were a sex toy. What did your master train you to be?”

“A…gladiator,” she said at length. “And…I would kill anything that got…loose in his laboratory.” She closed her eyes. “Not a useful trade.”

“No, not up here. No gladiator arenas in the north. Nothing like they have in the Western Empire. Granted, there are some fights to be had, but nothing worthwhile. Or magic user guilds who need muscle to protect their pansy asses. But you have skills. Means you have hope.”

He chuckled at her confused expression. “Means you can learn things, girl. Gladiating is as much an art as blacksmithing. I forge metal into weapons and tools.” He waved a hand at her as he got up and stretched. “You forged yourself into a weapon.” He took his cloak off the hook and put it on, then looked back at the pair. “Well, come along now. I can’t be waiting all day for you. I have work to get back to.”

Doom helped Tiwaz to her feet. She was more reluctant. “Where are we going?”

“My house, of course.” He led the pair out into the snowstorm, shouting back at them over the mournful howls of the wind through the forest. “I can see you need rest. Badly need it.” He opened the door to a sprawling home, the roof high enough that Doom could stand without hitting his head. “Don’t have any family here anymore. Most moved on to other pursuits in other towns. Pantry’s through the kitchen.” He looked Doom up and down. “But if you eat as much as your size hints that you do, I expect you to help replace it.”

“Of course,” Doom replied. “It would only be right.”

Kerk snorted as he went to a closet, pulling out a stack of bedding. “See why you couldn’t be a demon? Anyone who thinks otherwise is an idiot. Though I will admit, Bralden has its share of idiots. Lots look at the surface, never beyond. Gets everyone into trouble that I have to dig them out of.”

He coughed as he opened the bedroom door, waving his hand in front of his face. Inside were two very plain beds and a cloud of dust from the disturbance. “Haven’t had anyone staying here for a while. Place needs a bit of cleaning, but you can stay here long as you want, so long as you contribute.”

Tiwaz cringed, opening her mouth as she took a half step back. Kerk held up a hand. “You rest up first, girl. That would be the best thing you can do right now. Healers are an obnoxious bunch. Rather not have to call one in if I can avoid it. Once you’re not looking like death warmed over, we’ll find you a way for you to earn your keep, too.” He snorted. “I can’t keep calling you ‘lad’ and ‘girl.’ What are your names?”

“Thrahx Vaug,” the gromek replied. “But I prefer to be called Doom.” He looked at his friend and said as she looked away in shame, “I have always called her Tiwaz. It means ‘the honorable warrior’ in my people’s language. Her arena moniker was the Warrior.”

“Doom and the Warrior.” He considered and said, “Well, I do like Tiwaz better. More exotic.” He called back, “Breakfast will be around sunrise. If you’re not up, I’ll leave it out for you.”

The pair just stood, staring at the door in disbelief. “Maybe,” Tiwaz said slowly, “there are more good people in the world than not.”

“Maybe,” Doom conceded. The gromek jumped forward to catch her as her knees buckled. He eased her down to sit on one of the beds, quickly fixing the other one. He crouched in front of her, helping with taking off the backpack, cloak, and boots. “Would you be okay here if I went hunting tomorrow morning?”

She nodded, eyes closed in exhaustion. “I know you will come back for me.” She smiled faintly, touching his cheek lightly. “You have always come back for me. I don’t tell you how much I appreciate that often enough.”

He scooped her up in his arms, hugged her to him for several moments, then laid her on the made bed. “Sleep yourself out, Ti.” She nodded slightly, mostly asleep as he tucked the blanket around her shoulders.