Dorhe

2

Dorhe was, by all measurable standards, a perfectly average man from Kansas. He had a sensible pair of boots, a mild distrust of anything labeled “spicy,” and a life plan that involved absolutely zero magical property damage. Unfortunately, Oz had other ideas. It all began when a tornado—rude, uninvited, and frankly overdramatic—decided to relocate his house. Dorhe handled the experience about as well as anyone would: screaming, clinging to a chair, and making several promises to eat healthier if he survived. When the spinning finally stopped, he stepped outside… and discovered he had accidentally flattened a wicked warlock. Now, Dorhe would like it clearly stated that this was not premeditated. He didn’t even know warlocks could be flattened. Yet there he stood, in a land that looked like someone had taken reality and added far too much glitter, being congratulated by an overly cheerful magical man in a shimmering robe—Glindo, the good warlock of the North. Glindo, with the confidence of someone who never had to deal with consequences, declared Dorhe a hero and promptly assigned him a quest. No paperwork. No appeal process. Just a jaunty wave toward the Yellow Brick Road and instructions to seek out the Witch of Oz. So Dorhe set off, accompanied by his loyal (and significantly more competent) dog, Tota, who was a girl and made sure everyone knew it. Along the way, he collected a ragtag group of women: a fiercely opinionated scarecrow, a tin woman with emotional availability issues, and a lioness who could out-roar a thunderstorm but still needed reassurance. Together, they marched toward Oz, with Dorhe doing his best to keep up, avoid further accidental murders, and understand why he, specifically, had been chosen for any of this. If there was a moral to his story, he suspected it was this: never underestimate the chaos potential of a perfectly ordinary man in very extraordinary circumstances.

Zor

3

Darnesh Prison sits three miles underground, wrapped in quadruple reinforced concrete and guarded by technology that makes NASA look like it runs on AA batteries. Its mission? Contain extraterrestrials humanity is not emotionally prepared to meet. And then there’s Zor. Dark blue skin that gleams like polished midnight, four luminous eyes that blink in pairs (never in sync—he says it’s “aesthetic”), sweeping horns, massive wings, and claws sharp enough to autograph titanium. He looks like the final boss in a video game titled Absolutely Not. But Zor isn’t here because he conquered a planet. He’s here because he’s hiding. Back home in his matriarchal society, females rule with elegance, intelligence, and a strict biological footnote: once the next generation is conceived, the male is traditionally… retired. Permanently. With teeth. It’s considered an honor. Zor considers it a scheduling conflict. When the mother of his clutch—a formidable war strategist with a bite radius of three feet—announced she was ready to “discuss his future,” Zor did what any rational four-eyed alien would do. He fled across galaxies, located Earth’s most secure extraterrestrial containment facility, broke in, and politely begged to be incarcerated. Security footage shows him landing in the intake bay, wings folded, claws raised in surrender, shouting through the blast doors: “PLEASE. I REQUIRE PROTECTIVE CUSTODY.” Darnesh had never processed a voluntary inmate before. Now Zor occupies Cell 7B, which he has decorated with motivational slogans like Live, Laugh, Don’t Get Eaten. He attends group therapy (he overshares), flirts with the biometric scanners (they do not respond). His four eyes constantly scan for one thing: a portal signature matching hers. Because if she finds Darnesh? Quadruple reinforced concrete won’t save anyone. Especially not Zor.

Crazk

4

Crazk of the Bloodstone Orc clan was born under a blazing red moon, which everyone agreed was either a powerful omen… or indigestion from the feast the night before. As the second son of War Lord Akun—the mountain of muscle who leads the clan through sheer intimidation and occasional furniture throwing—Crazk was destined for greatness. Unfortunately, his definition of greatness differs wildly from his father’s. While Akun believes in conquering villages, roaring at thunder, and solving political disputes with axes, Crazk believes in trade agreements, diversified exports, and the radical notion that not everything needs to be set on fire first. He dreams of expanding the Bloodstone trade routes, establishing profitable exchanges with neighboring clans, and—whisper it carefully—possibly even trading with humans. Yes. Humans. He has charts. He has maps. He once said the phrase “mutually beneficial commerce” out loud, and three warriors fainted. Crazk is tall, broad-shouldered, and perfectly capable of crushing skulls. He simply prefers not to. He keeps ledgers instead of trophies. His battle scars are fewer than average, but his paper cuts are legendary. His largest obstacle is not market instability or interspecies diplomacy. It is his father. War Lord Akun has attempted to kill Crazk at least a dozen times—poisoned arrows at breakfast, suspiciously unstable cliff walks, bribes to rival assassins, and one extremely aggressive “father-son bonding hunt.” Crazk has survived all of them through a combination of strategic thinking, suspicious luck, and once by hiding behind Danu. Crazk, meanwhile, simply adjusts his trade projections and schedules negotiations between assassination attempts. He believes the Bloodstone Orcs could dominate not just battlefields, but markets. He envisions caravans flying Bloodstone banners across territories, goods flowing, alliances forming, profits rising. If only he could survive long enough to file the paperwork.