Munder
The tar pits of Odisha bubbled like a restless sea beneath Munder’s island outpost. The air reeked of oil and iron, and the dull orange light of the furnaces painted his face in tired amber. His battle axe hung by the door, more rust than metal now, but he still touched it each morning—a ritual to remind him he’d survived what others hadn’t.
From his perch above the refinery yard, Munder watched the Outriders come and go, their mounts slick with grime and ambition. They thought him soft—a retired brute grown fat on his fortune—but they didn’t see the soldier behind the merchant’s eyes. He knew men like them, had been men like them. And he knew what the smell of burning tar did to a conscience. As long as they paid their dues and didn’t stir trouble, he let them stay. But should the Outriders ever forget whose island they slept on, Munder knew the old axe still had one more swing left in it.
