Page 14

ZAHRA

D awn breaks over the Orclands in shades of crimson and gold, painting the canyon walls with light that reminds me of the war paint now permanently etched into my daily routine.

Three weeks have passed since that night in Rogar's tent, three weeks of learning what it means to be claimed and claimed in return.

The transformation feels deeper than mere physical intimacy—I've begun to understand the intricate web of loyalty and responsibility that binds the Stormfang together.

I'm adjusting the straps on my leather armor when Grimna approaches the training ground, his scarred face bearing the grim satisfaction of someone who's discovered useful intelligence.

"Morning, Lady Zahra," he says, using the title that still makes my chest clench with something between pride and disbelief. "Rogar wants you to join the scouting patrol today."

"Which route?" I ask, checking that my weapons are properly secured. The curved saber feels like an extension of my arm now, its weight familiar and comforting.

"Northern approaches toward the old mining settlements.

Reports suggest dark elf activity in the area—supply convoys moving toward the border territories.

" His grey eyes study my face with the intensity of someone reading battlefield conditions.

"Could be routine resupply, could be preparation for another assault on our territory. "

The distinction matters. Routine supply runs can be raided for resources and information.

Military preparations suggest a larger threat that requires different tactical responses.

Either way, the intelligence gathering represents exactly the kind of mission where my knowledge of dark elf operations provides genuine value.

"Who's leading the patrol?"

"I am." Grimna's expression grows troubled. "Though I'll be honest—part of me wonders if this isn't premature. You've proven yourself in training and strategy sessions, but field operations carry different risks."

The concern in his voice touches something warm in my chest. Over the past weeks, Rogar's gruff second-in-command has evolved from grudging acceptance of my presence to something approaching protective affection. He's become the closest thing to family I've known since my mother's death.

"You think I'll be a liability?"

"I think you'll be a target." He hefts his massive war axe, testing its balance with practiced ease. "Dark elves have long memories and longer grudges. If they identify you during the mission, it changes from reconnaissance to rescue operation."

"Or it becomes an opportunity to gather intelligence they'd never willingly share." I meet his gaze steadily. "Sometimes the best information comes from enemies who think they're capturing rather than being observed."

Grimna's bark of laughter echoes off the canyon walls. "Spoken like someone who's learned to turn disadvantages into weapons. Very well—but you follow my lead, stay within sight of backup, and retreat the moment I give the signal."

"Understood."

The patrol consists of eight warriors, each chosen for specific skills that complement the mission requirements.

Thresh brings his exceptional tracking abilities, while Vex provides expertise in dark elf magical signatures.

Two newer clan members—Drak and Kellen—represent the rising generation that sees my presence as natural rather than revolutionary.

We move through the pre-dawn darkness with the fluid efficiency of predators in familiar territory.

The younger warriors maintain perfect spacing and communication discipline, while the veterans read the landscape like a familiar map.

Being part of such coordinated movement feels intoxicating after years of solitary survival.

"Contact ahead," Thresh whispers, his enhanced senses detecting what the rest of us have missed. "Dark elf patrol, moving southeast along the ridge line."

Grimna signals for concealment, and we melt into the rocky terrain with practiced ease. Through gaps in the stone formations, I catch glimpses of our quarry—six dark elves in the distinctive black leather armor of border scouts, their violet eyes scanning the terrain with professional alertness.

But something about their formation triggers recognition from my years in Liiandor. These aren't routine border guards or even military scouts. The precise spacing, the way they move with weapons already partially drawn, the systematic pattern of their advance—these are hunters, not explorers.

"Grimna," I breathe, barely audible even to enhanced orc hearing. "They're tracking something. This isn't a patrol."

His scarred face turns toward me, eyebrows raised in silent question. I point to the lead scout's posture, the way his head tilts as if following a scent trail, the deliberate pace that suggests pursuit rather than reconnaissance.

"What are they hunting?" he asks.

The answer crystallizes with horrible clarity as I study their equipment more carefully.

Specialized restraint magic focuses hang from their belts alongside weapons designed for capture rather than killing.

Tracking stones pulse with subdued magical energy, following trails invisible to normal senses.

"Us," I whisper. "They're hunting the patrol."

Grimna's eyes widen as understanding hits. This isn't a chance encounter—it's a trap, carefully planned and expertly executed. The dark elves have somehow learned about our scouting mission and positioned themselves to intercept us.

But how? Our route was decided less than an hour ago, shared only among the patrol members and senior leadership. Either we have a traitor within the clan, or dark elf intelligence gathering has reached terrifying levels of sophistication.

The tactical situation deteriorates rapidly as more figures emerge from concealment along our intended path. Not six scouts, but dozens of warriors moving with coordinated precision. They've positioned themselves to cut off every escape route, turning the canyon approaches into a killing ground.

"Withdrawal," Grimna signals, but even as the hand gestures pass between patrol members, I can see the futility.

We're outnumbered at least three to one, caught in terrain that favors the ambush force.

Traditional tactical doctrine would call for immediate retreat, but retreat leads directly into more enemy positions.

"There," I point to a narrow defile between two rock formations. "Secondary route, angle southeast toward the old river bed."

"That leads away from the settlement," Vex protests.

"It also leads away from the main ambush force." I'm already moving, trusting the others to follow. "They've blocked the direct routes home, but they can't cover every game trail and water course."

Grimna hesitates for a fraction of a second before nodding agreement. "Move. Silent formation, watch for pursuit."

We slip through the defile like ghosts, using every scrap of cover the landscape provides. Behind us, shouts echo through the canyon as the dark elves realize their prey has escaped the initial trap. The hunt is on, but now it's become a contest of local knowledge against superior numbers.

The old river bed offers concealment and multiple branching paths, but it also channels us toward more open ground where our advantages evaporate. I rack my memory for alternatives, drawing on years of listening to smugglers and refugees discuss secret routes through dangerous territory.

"The mining tunnels," I say as we pause at a junction between dry stream channels. "There's an abandoned complex about two miles northeast. Multiple entrances, easy to defend, connects to the underground water systems."

"I know the place," Grimna confirms. "But if they trap us there, we'll be sealed in with no escape."

"Better than being run down in open ground." The sound of pursuit grows closer, boots on stone and the distinctive hum of tracking magic. "At least the tunnels limit their numerical advantage."

We push harder, sacrificing stealth for speed as the chase intensifies. The dark elves have committed significant resources to this ambush, suggesting either desperation or the conviction that eliminating this particular patrol serves strategic purposes.

The mining complex appears ahead like a promise of sanctuary—stone structures carved into the canyon wall, connected by a network of tunnels that honeycomb the rock. Most entrances have been sealed or collapsed, but local knowledge reveals hidden passages that offer access to the underground maze.

"There," I point to a crack in the rock face that looks like natural erosion but actually conceals a deliberately disguised entrance. "Smugglers' route. Connects to the main tunnel system but can be defended by a single warrior."

Grimna nods approval and signals the patrol toward the hidden passage. We slip inside just as the first dark elf scouts round the bend behind us, their tracking spells illuminating our position like beacons in the darkness.

The tunnels beyond offer both opportunity and peril. The narrow passages neutralize enemy numerical advantages while providing multiple options for movement and escape. But they also trap us underground with limited supplies and no easy way to call for reinforcement.

"How well do you know this complex?" Grimna asks as we navigate deeper into the maze.

"Well enough. Smugglers used these routes to move contraband between dark elf territories. I helped guide some of their operations before..." Before my capture and enslavement, before the long years of serving in Liiandor's hierarchy.

"Can you get us home?"

"Yes, but not quickly. The tunnels connect to the underground river system, but reaching navigable water requires several hours of careful movement."

Behind us, the sounds of pursuit echo through stone passages as dark elf forces spread through the complex. They're being methodical, sealing exits and establishing checkpoints to prevent escape. Professional work that speaks of extensive planning.

"Grimna," Vex calls from a side passage, his voice tight with concern. "You need to see this."

We follow him to where the tunnel opens into a larger chamber, one of the main excavation sites from when this complex was active. What we find there explains both the ambush and the enemies' determination to eliminate our patrol.

The chamber has been converted into a staging area for what can only be described as a military invasion.

Supplies stack along the walls—weapons, armor, magical focuses, and rations for hundreds of fighters.

Maps cover makeshift tables, showing detailed intelligence about Stormfang territory and defensive positions.

But it's the cages along the far wall that make my blood run cold.

Prisoners. Human prisoners, bearing the distinctive scars and brands that mark them as escaped slaves from various dark elf territories. Men and women who've found freedom somewhere in the wastelands, now captured and awaiting transport back to their former masters.

Among them, I recognize faces from the refugee camps that exist in the borderlands—people who've risked everything for the chance at liberty, now facing return to torments that would make death seem merciful.

"This is why they set the ambush," I realize. "They're not just hunting our patrol. They're eliminating anyone who might discover this operation."

"Slave recovery mission," Grimna growls, his scarred face twisted with disgust. "Rounding up escapees for transport back to the cities."

"More than that." I study the maps and supply manifests scattered across the tables. "This is preparation for a major offensive. They're using slave recovery as cover for positioning forces throughout the territory."

The implications hit like physical blows.

While the Stormfang have focused on defending their immediate territory, dark elf forces have been establishing supply caches and staging areas throughout the region.

The coming assault won't be a single massive attack—it will be a coordinated campaign to crush all resistance in the borderlands.

"We have to warn the clan," Thresh says.

"We have to survive first," Grimna corrects. "And that means?—"

The explosion cuts off his words as magical force tears through the chamber entrance. Dark elf assault troops pour through the breach, their weapons crackling with eldritch energy. The trap has finally closed, but now we're trapped among evidence that could change the entire strategic situation.

"Cover!" I shout, diving behind a stack of supply crates as chaos magic turns the air into sheets of deadly force.

The battle that follows tests every skill I've learned over the past weeks.

Confined spaces favor close combat, but dark elf magic creates devastating area effects that make cover meaningless.

Only constant movement and aggressive tactics keep us alive as enemy numbers press against our defensive positions.

Grimna fights like the veteran he is, his war axe carving through enemy formations with mechanical precision. But even his skills can't overcome the mathematical reality of our situation. We're outnumbered, outgunned, and trapped in terrain that offers no hope of escape.

That's when I see the dark elf commander moving to flank Grimna's position, chaos magic gathering around his hands in preparation for a killing strike. The seasoned warrior is focused on the enemies in front of him, unaware of the threat materializing from his blind spot.

Time slows as tactical options flash through my mind.

Shout a warning—too slow, and it might distract Grimna at a critical moment.

Throw a knife—uncertain accuracy at this distance, and failure means watching my friend die.

Rush the commander directly—suicide, but it might disrupt his spell long enough for Grimna to respond.

I choose suicide.

My charge carries me across open ground faster than thought, the curved saber cutting through the air toward the commander's exposed throat. His violet eyes widen with surprise as he realizes the danger, but momentum and desperation drive my blade home before he can complete his casting.

The chaos magic releases in an uncontrolled burst, tearing through the chamber like a hurricane of raw force. I'm thrown against the stone wall hard enough to crack ribs, my vision exploding into stars and darkness.

But Grimna lives. And sometimes, that's victory enough.