His mother was a captured human, reduced to a slave a object within the tribe. His father, an orc warrior, took what he wanted as they all did. Kurk was not desired. He was simply what remained.

From a young age, he learned that pain was common and weakness was a sentence. A half-orc, he was not accepted but he was not killed either.

When his mother died, in yet another childbirth the tribe ignored, Kurk did not cry. He already understood enough to know it did not matter to anyone but him.

Some time later, his father took him hunting. It lasted months, maybe years, far from the tribe. Long enough to learn what he needed: to track, to find water, to use a blade, to not hesitate. The teaching was harsh, direct, with no room for error.

But Kurk also watched.

He realized his father had not left by chance. There was something unfinished, something pulling him back. The loss of what was “his” had not been forgotten. It would still demand a price.

Kurk understood before it even happened. One ordinary morning, he woke up alone. The camp was intact. Bow, arrows, blades, supplies all left behind. Everything except his father’s favorite weapon.

Kurk looked around for a while. Long enough. He understood. His father would return to the tribe to settle what he believed was his by right. And Kurk… was not part of that.

At around ten years old, Kurk accepted this without surprise. The world had always been like this. He was only now seeing it clearly.

Even so, something remained. He learned to survive. Learned to be hard. Not to trust. But sometimes, when faced with someone weaker, he would hesitate for a moment longer than he should because of a feeling he would only come to understand in the future.