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ROGAR

T he human female stands before me like a wraith conjured from the morning mist, her dark amber eyes blazing with defiance despite the exhaustion etched into every line of her small frame.

Blood stains the white silk of her torn garment—a sacrificial gown, if I'm not mistaken.

The metallic scent mingles with something else, something that shouldn't be possible.

Magic. Old magic, dormant but present in her bloodline.

"A dark elf sacrifice," I rumble, circling her slowly while my warriors maintain their positions. "Escaped, by the look of things. The question is whether you're worth more to us alive or dead."

She lifts her chin, meeting my gaze without flinching. Impressive. Most humans would be sobbing or begging by now. "I suppose that depends on what kind of monsters you are."

Laughter rumbles from my chest before I can stop it. "Monsters? Little human, we are the Stormfang Clan. We don't deal in monsters—we are the storm that breaks them."

"How poetic," she says, and there's actual venom in her voice. "I'm sure your victims appreciate the literary flair before you gut them."

Interesting. Fire burns in this one, despite her obvious fear. I can smell it on her—the sharp tang of terror mixed with something far more intriguing. Determination. She's prepared to fight, even knowing she cannot win.

My second-in-command, Grimna, shifts restlessly on my left. His massive war axe remains sheathed, but his hand hovers near the grip. "Chieftain, we should move. Dark elf patrols will be searching for her soon."

He's right, of course. The explosion that shook Liiandor last night was felt even here, thirty miles into the Orclands. Whatever attack allowed this female to escape, it won't keep the dark elves occupied forever. And King Kres Ennarmis is not known for accepting losses gracefully.

"What's your name, sacrifice?" I ask, taking another step closer. She doesn't retreat, though every instinct must be screaming at her to run.

"Zahra." The name falls from her lips like a challenge. "And I'm nobody's sacrifice."

"No," I agree, studying the thin scar along her jawline, the way she holds herself despite her injuries. "I don't believe you are."

The admission surprises even me. In my long years, I've learned to read potential threats, allies, and prey with ruthless accuracy. This human registers as all three simultaneously—a contradiction that sets my teeth on edge.

"Rogar," Grimna warns, his voice dropping to the rumbling bass we use for private communication. "She's dark elf property. Harboring her brings war to our territory."

"War was coming regardless," I reply in the same tone, never taking my eyes off Zahra. She watches our exchange with sharp intelligence, though she cannot understand the words. "Kres has been pushing his boundaries for months. This simply forces his hand sooner."

Grimna's silence speaks volumes. He knows I'm right, but that doesn't make the decision easier.

The Stormfang Clan has survived by choosing our battles carefully, striking hard and fast before melting back into the hostile landscape that serves as our fortress.

Taking in a escaped dark elf sacrifice could be seen as either bold leadership or reckless stupidity.

Time will tell which.

"You have a choice, Zahra," I say, switching back to common tongue. "You can come with us willingly, or we can bind you and drag you back to our settlement. Either way, you're leaving this place."

Her hands clench into fists at her sides. "And if I refuse both options?"

"Then you die here in the wasteland, alone and forgotten." I shrug, the motion making my armor creak. "The sun will bleach your bones white within a week, and the next traveler will step over your skull without a second thought."

The brutal honesty hits her like a physical blow, but she doesn't crumble. Instead, she straightens her spine and fixes me with a glare that could melt steel. "You paint such a vivid picture. Do all orc chieftains double as poets?"

Another surprise. Humor in the face of mortal peril—either she's braver than any human I've encountered, or madness has already claimed her. Both possibilities intrigue me more than they should.

"Mount up," I command my warriors without breaking eye contact with Zahra. "We return to camp immediately."

"What about the human?" asks Thresh, my youngest warrior. His tusks are barely visible beneath his upper lip, marking him as barely past his coming-of-age trials.

"She rides with me."

The declaration hangs in the air. Even Grimna's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. I've never taken a prisoner aboard my mount, never shown such consideration to captured prey. But something about this female demands a response I cannot name.

Zahra's eyes widen as I approach my war beast—a magnificent specimen named Sunder, whose scales shimmer like oil in the morning light. His head alone is larger than her entire torso, and his teeth could snap her in half without effort.

"I've never ridden one of those things," she says, and for the first time, uncertainty creeps into her voice.

"Batlaz are not 'things,'" I correct, running my hand along Sunder's neck. "They are partners, companions in battle and hunt. This is Sunder, and he has carried me through more fights than you've seen sunrises."

The great beast rumbles deep in his chest, a sound that vibrates through the ground beneath our feet.

Zahra takes an involuntary step backward, and I catch her arm before she can fall.

Her skin is soft beneath my calloused fingers, pale and smooth except for the network of small scars that mark a life of hardship.

"He won't hurt you," I say, surprised by the gentleness in my own voice. "Not while you're under my protection."

"And how long does that protection last?" she asks, looking up at me with those dark amber eyes.

The question cuts deeper than any blade. How long, indeed? Until she proves herself useful? Until the dark elves come calling? Until my clan decides she's more liability than asset?

"That depends entirely on you."

I lift her onto Sunder's back as easily as I might handle a child, though the way she settles against me is anything but childlike.

Her body fits against mine with startling precision, and I find myself hyperaware of every point of contact.

The curve of her spine against my chest, the weight of her head against my shoulder, the way her breath catches when Sunder begins to move.

We ride in silence for the first hour, the only sounds the rhythmic pound of claws against stone and the whisper of wind through the surrounding canyon walls.

The Orclands stretch around us in endless variations of red and brown, broken only by the occasional splash of hardy vegetation that has learned to thrive in this unforgiving environment.

"Why did you help me?" Zahra asks suddenly, her voice barely audible over the wind.

The question catches me off guard. In truth, I'm not entirely certain myself.

Perhaps it's the way she stood her ground despite impossible odds.

Perhaps it's the intelligence that burns behind her eyes like banked coals.

Or perhaps it's something far more dangerous—the recognition of a kindred spirit in the most unlikely of packages.

"You were fighting," I say finally. "Even when defeat was certain, you chose to fight rather than submit. That deserves respect, regardless of species."

She twists in my arms to look at me directly, and the movement brings our faces close enough that her breath brush against my cheek. "Is that really why?"

The simple question carries weight that threatens to crush my carefully maintained control.

Because the truth is far more complicated than respect for courage.

The truth is that something about this small, fierce human calls to parts of myself I've kept buried since becoming chieftain.

Parts that recognize strength in unexpected forms, that hunger for companionship beyond the bonds of clan loyalty.

"Ask me again when you've survived your first week among the Stormfang," I say instead.

Her laugh is bitter as the desert wind. "Assuming I live that long."

"You will." The belief in my voice surprises us both. "Whatever else you are, Zahra, you're a survivor. The dark elves couldn't break you, and they've perfected the art of breaking humans for centuries."

She settles back against my chest, and I feel some of the tension leave her shoulders. "You sound like you speak from experience."

"I've seen what they do to prisoners." The words taste like ash in my mouth. "The lucky ones die quickly."

"And the unlucky ones?"

"Become warnings to others who might consider defying dark elf rule."

We crest a ridge, and the Stormfang settlement spreads below us—a cluster of stone and hide structures built into the natural caves and overhangs that honeycomb this section of canyon wall.

Smoke rises from cooking fires, and I can see the small figures of clan members going about their daily tasks.

Children chase each other between the tents while their mothers prepare the morning meal.

Warriors tend to weapons and mounts, ever ready for the next raid or defensive action.

Home. The word carries more weight now than it did this morning, viewed through the eyes of someone who has never known such security.

"It's not what I expected," Zahra murmurs.

"What did you expect?"

"Skulls mounted on spikes. Cages full of prisoners. The usual orc stereotypes."

I snort. "We save the skull-mounting for special occasions. And prisoners don't last long enough to need cages."

The joke falls flat when she stiffens against me. Clearly, my attempt at humor needs work. Social interaction has never been my strongest skill—battle strategy and tactical planning leave little time for developing conversational finesse.

"Relax," I say, adjusting my grip around her waist. "You're not a prisoner. Not anymore."

"Then what am I?"

The question hangs between us as Sunder picks his way down the narrow path toward the settlement. What is she, indeed? Refugee? Asset? Potential liability? The honest answer is that I don't know, and uncertainty is not a luxury chieftains can afford.

"You're someone who fought when fighting seemed impossible," I say at last. "Someone who chose freedom over certain death. That makes you... interesting."

"Interesting." She tastes the word like fine wine. "I've been called many things, but interesting is new."

"What have you been called?"

"Stubborn. Difficult. Ungrateful. The usual complaints about slaves who don't know their place."

Slave. The word hits me like a physical blow, and my arms tighten around her involuntarily.

Slavery is not unknown among orc clans, though we prefer the honest simplicity of battle to the prolonged cruelty of ownership.

But somehow, the thought of this fierce creature reduced to property sets fire to something primitive and violent in my heart.

"You're not a slave here," I growl, the words carrying more heat than I intended.

"No?" She glances back at me with those dark amber eyes. "Then what happens when your clan decides I'm not worth keeping alive?"

The challenge in her voice demands an honest answer, even if the truth complicates everything.

Because the truth is that my protection only extends as far as my authority, and there are those among the Stormfang who would see her as nothing more than a mouth to feed and a potential threat to our security.

"Then you'll have to prove them wrong."

"And if I can't?"

I meet her gaze steadily, letting her see the steel beneath my words. "Then you'll die fighting, which is more than most can say."

For a moment, something flickers across her face—gratitude, perhaps, or recognition of the honor inherent in such a death. Then her expression hardens into determination that matches my own.

"I won't need to die fighting," she says with quiet conviction. "Because I'm going to live through whatever tests your people put me through. And when the dark elves come looking for me—and they will come—I'm going to be strong enough to help you destroy them."

The words ring with the force of prophecy, and I find myself believing her despite every rational argument to the contrary. This small human female, bloodied and exhausted and utterly outmatched, speaks of strength and vengeance with the confidence of a seasoned warrior.

Perhaps she's exactly what the Stormfang Clan needs. Or perhaps she's the catalyst that will bring destruction down upon all our heads.

Time will tell which prophecy proves true.