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ZAHRA

T he Stormfang settlement buzzes with activity as Rogar guides Sunder through the maze of stone dwellings and hide tents.

Every pair of eyes turns toward us, and the conversations that were flowing like water moments before dry up into tense silence.

I feel their scrutiny like a physical weight pressing down on my shoulders, each gaze cataloguing my obvious humanity, my blood-stained sacrificial gown, my complete lack of belonging in this place.

A female orc emerges from one of the larger tents, her green skin bearing intricate tattoos that spiral down her muscular arms. She's shorter than Rogar but no less imposing, with a mohawk of jet-black hair adorned with bone ornaments that click softly as she moves.

Her eyes—brilliant amber like molten gold—fix on me with undisguised hostility.

"Chieftain," she calls out in common tongue, though her voice carries the rough edge that seems universal among orcs. "You bring gifts from your morning hunt?"

The word 'gifts' drips with sarcasm sharp enough to cut. Several other clan members gather behind her, their expressions ranging from curious to openly aggressive. I catch glimpses of weapons being shifted into easier reach, hands moving to rest on axe handles and sword hilts.

"Khela," Rogar acknowledges, his voice carrying a warning that doesn't seem to penetrate the female's obvious irritation. "This is Zahra. She's under my protection."

"Protection." Khela spits the word like poison. "Since when do we offer sanctuary to dark elf pets?"

The insult hits like a slap, but I force myself to remain still against Rogar's chest. Showing anger now would only confirm their worst assumptions about my character.

Instead, I meet Khela's burning gaze with as much dignity as I can muster while wearing bloodstained silk and smelling like river water.

"I'm nobody's pet," I say quietly, but my voice carries clearly across the gathered crowd.

Khela's laugh is harsh as grinding stone. "Spoken like a true lapdog who's forgotten her place. Tell me, little human, how many of your kind have you watched die for dark elf amusement? How many have you helped drag to the altar?"

The accusation burns because it contains enough truth to sting.

I did nothing to save the other humans in Liiandor, couldn't save them even if I'd tried.

Survival demanded that I keep my head down, follow orders, and endure whatever cruelties were visited upon me.

But admitting that weakness here would be tantamount to signing my own death warrant.

"I watched," I admit, letting steel creep into my voice. "And I learned. I learned that the only difference between predator and prey is the willingness to fight when the opportunity comes. Last night, I chose to fight."

"And now you expect us to coddle you because you finally grew a spine?

" Another orc steps forward—male, with scars crisscrossing his broad chest like a map of past battles.

His tusks protrude well past his lower lip, yellowed with age and filed to razor points.

"We are not a charity for broken humans, Chieftain. "

Murmurs of agreement ripple through the crowd, and I feel Rogar's muscles tense beneath me. He's outnumbered, and while his authority as chieftain commands respect, that respect clearly has limits when it comes to harboring what they see as a liability.

"Broken?" The word sparks something dangerous in my chest. "You want to see broken? Look at what the dark elves left behind when they finished with me."

I slide down from Sunder's back before Rogar can stop me, landing on unsteady feet but managing to stay upright through sheer stubborn will.

The crowd closes in, a semicircle of green skin and bared tusks, but I don't retreat.

Instead, I reach for the torn edge of my gown and rip it further, exposing the network of scars that map my torso like a constellation of old pain.

"Whip marks," I say, pointing to the parallel lines that cross my back.

"From speaking out of turn. Brand marks.

" I indicate the cruel symbols burned into my shoulder.

"For trying to escape the first time. Knife cuts.

" My fingers trace the thin white lines along my ribs.

"For fighting back when they came for my friend. "

The crowd has gone silent, their expressions shifting from hostility to something harder to read. I continue my catalog of damage, each scar a testament to years of endurance that should have broken anyone with sense.

"Burns from magical punishment. Bite marks from their pets. A cracked skull from the time I dared look a noble in the eye." I meet Khela's gaze directly. "This is what broken looks like when it refuses to stay broken. This is what survival costs when you're property instead of a person."

For a long moment, nobody speaks. The only sounds are the whisper of wind through the canyon and the distant calls of children playing somewhere deeper in the settlement. Then Khela steps closer, her amber eyes studying my scars with newfound interest.

"You killed any of them?" she asks bluntly.

"Two." The admission slips out before I can consider the wisdom of confessing to murder. "A guard who cornered my friend in the kitchens. And a noble's son who thought human flesh was his birthright."

Khela's scarred lips curve into something that might charitably be called a smile. "How?"

"Kitchen knife through the guard's throat. Poison in the noble's wine—took three days for him to die."

"And they didn't execute you?"

"They needed me alive for the ritual. The Serpent prefers his sacrifices unmarked by obvious violence." I gesture to the shallow cut along my ribs. "Though they made sure I understood the consequences of further rebellion."

The female orc nods slowly, as if I've passed some test I wasn't aware of taking. "You have spine, little human. Stupid spine, but spine nonetheless."

"Khela," Rogar's voice carries warning as he dismounts from Sunder. "Zahra needs food, water, and medical attention. The philosophical debates can wait."

"Can they?" The scarred male speaks up again. "Grimna tells me you plan to keep her. That true, Chieftain?"

All eyes turn to Rogar, and I feel the weight of decision hanging in the space like smoke from a forge. He could deny it, claim he's merely offering temporary shelter until I'm strong enough to leave on my own. The lie would smooth over clan tensions and give him an easy way to dispose of me later.

Instead, he places one massive hand on my shoulder, the gesture both protective and possessive. "Zahra stays. Anyone who has a problem with that decision can take it up with me directly."

The challenge in his words is unmistakable. Several clan members shift uncomfortably, but none seem willing to openly defy their chieftain. For now.

"Where?" Khela asks, practical as always. "She can't sleep in your tent—the clan would never accept a human sharing the chieftain's bed. And she's too weak to build her own shelter."

Heat rushes to my cheeks at the implication, but I force myself to focus on the practical problem she's raised. Rogar's protection only means something if the clan accepts it, and harboring me in his personal space would undermine his authority while making me an even bigger target for resentment.

"She'll stay with the unmated warriors until she can establish her own household," Rogar decides. "Thresh can show her where to find food and water. Khela, I want you to evaluate her fitness for training."

"Training?" I can't hide my surprise. "What kind of training?"

Khela's smile turns predatory. "The kind that keeps you alive when pretty words and sharp tongue aren't enough. If you're staying with the Stormfang, you learn to fight like Stormfang. No exceptions."

The prospect should terrify me. I've never held a real weapon, never trained for combat beyond the basic self-defense that comes from living in constant danger.

But instead of fear, I feel something that might be excitement uncurling in my chest. The chance to become strong, to learn skills that could protect not just myself but others who need defending.

"When do we start?" I ask.

"Now." Khela jerks her head toward a flat area near the settlement's edge where wooden practice weapons wait in neat rows. "Unless you need to rest first? I know humans are delicate."

The taunt is obvious, but I rise to it anyway. "Lead the way."

"Zahra." Rogar's voice stops me before I can follow Khela. "You're injured and exhausted. There's no shame in waiting until tomorrow."

Part of me wants to accept his offer, to collapse into whatever shelter they'll provide and sleep for a week. But I can feel the clan watching, weighing my every response. Show weakness now, and I'll never be anything more than a burden they tolerate for their chieftain's sake.

"I'm fine," I lie, straightening my spine despite the ache in my ribs. "A few bruises never killed anyone."

Khela's approving grunt suggests I've given the right answer.

She turns and strides toward the training ground, her bone ornaments clicking a rhythm that sounds suspiciously like funeral drums. I follow, hyperaware of the crowd dispersing behind us, their conversations resuming in low murmurs that undoubtedly center on my presence.

The training area is larger than it appeared from a distance, a natural amphitheater carved into the canyon wall by wind and time.

Sand has been spread across the stone floor, dark with old bloodstains that speak of serious combat rather than gentle sparring.

Wooden weapons line the perimeter—swords, axes, maces, and implements I can't identify.

"Pick one," Khela commands, gesturing to the array.

I study the options, trying to guess which might suit my size and strength. The axes are clearly too heavy, and the longer swords would be unwieldy in my hands. Finally, I settle on a curved blade about the length of my forearm, its wooden surface polished smooth by countless training sessions.

"Interesting choice." Khela selects a practice axe that looks barely smaller than the real weapons the clan warriors carry. "Most humans go for the straight sword. Familiar, predictable. But you chose a saber—aggressive, requires commitment to the attack."

"I'm told I have commitment issues," I say, testing the weapon's balance.

"We'll see." Khela moves to the center of the arena, her stance shifting into something predatory and fluid.

"First lesson: pain is your teacher, and she's not gentle with stupid students.

Second lesson: the ground is your enemy as much as your opponent.

Third lesson: there are no rules in real combat, so don't expect any here. "

She doesn't give me time to respond before she's moving, the practice axe cutting through the air toward my head with frightening speed. I throw myself sideways, feeling the wind of her passage ruffle my hair, and try to bring my own weapon up in a clumsy counterattack.

Khela bats my blade aside effortlessly and follows up with a sweep of her axe handle that catches me across the ribs. The impact drives the air from my lungs and sends me sprawling in the sand, my practice sword spinning away across the arena floor.

"Dead," she announces cheerfully. "What did you learn?"

I spit sand from my mouth and glare up at her. "That you're faster than you look."

"Wrong. You learned that hesitation kills. You saw my attack coming and wasted precious time deciding how to respond. In real combat, that delay would have left your head rolling in the dirt."

She offers me a hand up, and I accept it despite the humiliation burning in my chest. "Again," I say, retrieving my weapon.

"Again," she agrees.

The pattern repeats itself a dozen times—Khela attacks, I attempt to defend, and I end up flat on my back in the sand.

Each impact teaches me something new about my own limitations, about the vast gulf between intellectual understanding of combat and the physical reality of violence.

My ribs ache, my head pounds, and I'm fairly certain I'll be purple with bruises by tomorrow.

But I keep getting up.

"Enough." Khela finally calls a halt after I've been knocked down for what feels like the hundredth time. "You're starting to telegraph your moves, which means you're too tired to learn effectively."

I struggle to my feet, swaying slightly as exhaustion finally catches up with me. The sun has moved significantly since we began, and I realize we've been training for hours. My stomach clenches with hunger, and the wound in my side has reopened, seeping blood through the torn silk of my gown.

"How did I do?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to hear the answer.

Khela studies me with those piercing amber eyes, taking in my bedraggled appearance and obvious pain. "You have the instincts of a fighter," she says finally. "Raw and untrained, but present. More importantly, you have the will to continue when most would have quit."

"Is that enough?"

"To survive? Maybe. To thrive among the Stormfang?" She shrugs. "That remains to be seen. But you've earned the right to try, which is more than I expected when this day began."

The admission feels like a victory, however small. I've proven I'm not entirely helpless, that I'm willing to endure pain and humiliation in pursuit of strength. It's a beginning, at least.

"Come," Khela says, slinging her practice axe over her shoulder. "You need food and rest. Tomorrow we'll see if you can hold a weapon properly before I knock you down."

As we walk back toward the settlement, I catch sight of Rogar watching from the shadow of a stone overhang.

Our eyes meet across the distance, and something passes between us—approval, perhaps, or recognition.

He nods once before disappearing into the maze of dwellings, leaving me to wonder what exactly I've gotten myself into.

One thing is certain: survival among the Stormfang Clan will require more than just enduring their training. I'll need to prove my worth not just as a fighter, but as someone they can trust, someone who adds value to their community rather than merely consuming resources.

The question is whether I'm strong enough to become the person they need me to be, or if the scars of my past will prove too heavy to overcome.

Time will tell. But for the first time since my escape from Liiandor, I have hope that the answer might be yes.