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ZAHRA

T he ceremonial blade gleams silver in the torchlight, its edge honed to perfection for the sacred work ahead.

I force my breathing to remain steady, even as my wrists burn against the iron shackles binding me to the obsidian altar.

The stone beneath my back radiates cold that seeps through the thin sacrificial gown they've dressed me in—white silk that will soon be stained crimson for The Serpent's pleasure.

King Kres Ennarmis stands before me, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames that surround the temple's perimeter.

His skin seems to glow in the firelight, and the cruel smile playing at his lips promises agony beyond imagination.

Behind him, dozens of dark elves chant in their ancient tongue, their voices rising and falling in a hypnotic rhythm that makes my stomach churn.

"Tonight, little human, your blood will feed our god," Kres murmurs, his voice carrying the silk-wrapped steel that all dark elf nobles possess. "The Serpent hungers, and you will sate his appetite."

I meet his gaze without flinching, though terror claws at my throat. "Fuck your serpent."

The words slip out before I can stop them, and several gasps echo through the temple. A lesser human would already be dead for such blasphemy, but they need me alive for the ritual. Kres's smile widens, revealing teeth too sharp to be entirely natural.

"Such fire," he purrs, trailing one long finger down my cheek. His skin feels like ice against mine. "The Serpent will savor every drop."

The chanting grows louder, and I feel the magic building in the air like pressure before a storm.

My mother once told me that humans with the old blood could sense such things—apparently, she was right.

The power crackles against my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms despite the ritual fires blazing around us.

Kres raises the blade high, and I close my eyes, sending a silent prayer to whatever gods might listen to the desperate pleas of a slave girl. The metal whistles through the air toward my heart.

An explosion rocks the temple, sending chunks of stone raining down on the assembled dark elves. The blade goes wide, slicing across my ribs instead of piercing my heart. Pain flares, but it's nothing compared to the surge of hope that fills my chest as screams erupt throughout the chamber.

"Attack! We're under attack!" someone shouts in elvish.

Chaos erupts as more explosions shake the foundation. The iron restraints around my wrists have loosened in the impact, and I wrench my arms free with a strength born of desperation. Blood streams from the gash along my side, but I ignore it as I roll off the altar and hit the stone floor hard.

Dark elves rush past me toward the temple entrance, their elegant robes billowing as they prepare for battle.

Magic crackles in the air—chaos magic, elemental force, and divine power all mixing into a deadly cocktail that makes my teeth ache.

I crawl behind a fallen pillar, using the shadows to hide as I assess my situation.

King Kres has vanished, likely teleported to safety the moment the attack began. Coward. The other nobles follow suit, abandoning their ceremony to protect their own worthless hides. Only the lower-caste soldiers remain, and they're too focused on the threat outside to notice one escaped sacrifice.

My bare feet slap against the cold stone as I sprint toward the rear of the temple. The servant's entrance—it has to be unlocked. The staff would have fled at the first sign of trouble. I slam into the heavy wooden door, my shoulder screaming in protest, but it gives way.

Cool night air hits my face like a benediction. I'm free.

The city of Liiandor spreads before me, its towering spires and bridges shrouded in darkness.

Fires burn in the distance where the attack continues, and the screams of the dying echo off the canyon walls that surround this cursed place.

I need to reach the outer walls before the dark elves finish dealing with their attackers—whoever they are, I owe them my life.

My feet are already bleeding by the time I reach the first residential district. The cobblestones are slick with moisture and sharp enough to cut skin, but I don't dare slow down. Behind me, the sounds of battle grow fainter, which means the attack is likely over. Soon, they'll discover my absence.

"You there! Stop!"

The shout comes from my left, and I see a pair of miou warriors in their distinctive black leather armor rushing toward me. Their eyes gleam in the darkness, and the chaos magic crackling around their hands promises a painful recapture.

I dart down a narrow alley between two crumbling tenements, my heart hammering against my ribs. The wound in my ribs throbs with each step, leaving a trail of blood that any competent tracker could follow. I need to find a way to throw them off my scent.

The alley opens onto one of Liiandor's many bridges, this one spanning a particularly deep chasm.

Far below, I can hear the rush of underground rivers that honeycomb the mountains beneath the city.

The bridge sways slightly in the wind, and with growing horror that it's my only way forward—the miou have blocked the alley behind me.

"Nowhere to run, little sacrifice," one of them calls out in accented common tongue. "Come back quietly, and King Kres might allow you a swift death instead of the prolonged agony your escape has earned."

I step onto the bridge, feeling the ancient wood groan under my weight. The rope railings are frayed and rotting, but they're all that stands between me and a very long fall. The dark elves follow, moving with the predatory grace of their kind.

"I'd rather take my chances with the chasm," I call back, surprised by how steady my voice sounds.

They laugh, a sound like breaking glass. "Then you're a fool as well as a coward."

Perhaps. But I've been called worse things by better people.

I reach the bridge's center and turn to face them, backing toward the far side one step at a time. The ropes creak ominously with each movement, and I can feel several strands beginning to snap under the stress. An idea forms—desperate and likely suicidal, but it's the only chance I have.

"You want me?" I shout, grabbing the rope railing with both hands. "Come and take me!"

I throw my full weight against the rotting barrier. The rope snaps with a sharp crack, and an entire section of the bridge's side gives way. The dark elves leap backward as the structure begins to collapse, but I'm already falling with it into the abyss below.

The water hits me like a physical blow, driving the air from my lungs and sending me tumbling through the darkness.

The underground river is swift and mercilessly cold, carrying me away from Liiandor faster than any pursuit could follow.

I surface gasping, my lungs burning as I struggle to stay afloat in the churning current.

Rock walls rush past in a blur, and I can hear the roar of rapids ahead. I manage to grab hold of a protruding stone just as the river widens, pulling myself partially out of the water with strength I didn't know I possessed. My entire body shakes from cold and shock, but I'm alive.

More importantly, I'm free.

The river carries me for what feels like hours, though it's impossible to tell time in the absolute darkness of the underground caverns.

I drift in and out of consciousness, clinging to whatever handholds I can find as the current drags me ever farther from my prison.

The wound has stopped bleeding, sealed by the icy water, but my limbs feel like lead.

Eventually, the tunnel begins to slope upward, and I see light ahead—real light, not the magical illumination of dark elf cities. Dawn. I've survived the night.

The river deposits me in a shallow pool surrounded by scrub brush and twisted trees. I crawl onto the muddy bank and collapse, every muscle in my body screaming in protest. The sky above is painted in shades of gold and crimson, and I've never seen anything more beautiful.

But my relief is short-lived. As my vision clears, I realize where the underground river has carried me. The landscape around me is harsh and unforgiving—red earth dotted with thorny vegetation and jagged rock formations that stretch toward the horizon like the bones of some ancient beast.

The Orclands.

I've escaped one death only to stumble into another.

Everyone knows what happens to humans who venture into orc territory.

The stories are consistent across every culture on Protheka—orcs are savage, bloodthirsty creatures who delight in torture and feast on the flesh of their enemies.

They show no mercy to trespassers, especially humans.

But as I struggle standing up, swaying with exhaustion and blood loss, I realize I have no choice. Behind me lies Liiandor and certain death at the hands of King Kres. Ahead lies the unknown dangers of orc territory. At least here, I have a chance—however slim.

My stomach clenches with hunger, reminding me that I haven't eaten since yesterday morning.

The sacrificial fast was meant to purify my blood for The Serpent, but now it leaves me weak and lightheaded.

I need food, water, and shelter, but I have no idea how to find any of them in this desolate wasteland.

A sound reaches my ears—rhythmic and growing louder. Hoofbeats. Multiple riders approaching fast.

I dive behind a cluster of boulders just as a group of mounted figures crests a nearby hill.

Even from a distance, there's no mistaking what they are.

The riders are massive, their green skin gleaming in the morning light, with tusks protruding from their lower jaws.

They wear leather and metal armor decorated with bones and crude weapons, and their mounts are some kind of beast I've never seen before—larger than horses, with scales instead of fur and eyes like burning coals.

Orcs. And they're heading straight for me.

I press myself deeper into the shadows between the rocks, hardly daring to breathe.

The stories flood back to me—tales of humans skinned alive and left to die in the desert sun, of women taken as slaves and used until they broke, of children fed to the orcs' war beasts for sport.

My hand instinctively moves to the shallow cut along my ribs, and I wonder if it would be kinder to reopen the wound and bleed out quietly rather than face whatever torments await me.

The hoofbeats grow louder, and I can hear voices now—deep, guttural sounds that must be the orc language. They're very close, and I can already smell them: leather, sweat, and something wild and dangerous that makes my pulse race.

One of the voices rises above the others, barking what sounds like orders. The tone is commanding, authoritative, and something about it sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear. Well, not entirely fear.

The sound of movement surrounds my hiding place, and realizing with dread that they've dismounted. Heavy footsteps circle the boulder cluster, methodical and patient. They know I'm here.

"Come out, little human," a voice rumbles in heavily accented common tongue. The words are rough, like gravel grinding together, but perfectly understandable. "I can smell your blood. You're injured and alone in our territory. Running will only make your death more painful."

I close my eyes and take a shuddering breath. After everything I've survived—years of slavery, a sacrificial ritual, a death-defying escape—it seems fitting that my story would end here, captured by the very monsters parents use to frighten their children into obedience.

But I won't go quietly. If I'm going to die, I'll do it on my feet.

I stand slowly, my legs shaking with exhaustion and terror, and step out from behind the rocks.

Six orcs surround me in a loose circle, their weapons drawn but not immediately threatening.

They're even larger up close than I expected—the smallest among them stands at least seven feet tall, with shoulders broad enough to dwarf any human warrior.

But it's their leader who commands my attention.

He's a giant even among his own kind, standing well over eight feet tall with muscle layered upon muscle beneath skin the color of deep forest shadows.

Tribal tattoos cover his shoulders and arms in intricate patterns that speak of battles won and enemies defeated.

His black hair is braided with small bones and metal rings, and his eyes are not what I expected.

Instead of the mindless brutality I've been taught to fear, I see intelligence there. Sharp, calculating, and undeniably dangerous, but intelligent nonetheless. He studies me with the same intensity I imagine a predator reserves for prey that might fight back.

"Well," he rumbles, his voice like distant thunder. "What do we have here?"