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ZAHRA

T he crude sleeping furs scratch against my skin as I lie awake in the warriors' quarters, listening to the rumbling snores that echo off stone walls.

My body aches from Khela's training, each bruise a tender reminder that I'm still alive when I should be dead on The Serpent's altar.

But it's not physical pain that keeps sleep at bay—it's the churning thoughts that refuse to quiet.

Clan harmony serves everyone better than blood feuds.

Rogar's words replay in my mind like a curse, each repetition driving the knife of disappointment deeper.

For a brief, foolish moment by the fire, I'd allowed myself to believe he might see me as more than a political liability.

The way he'd looked at me during training, the careful protection he'd offered—I'd mistaken it for something approaching respect.

His reminder that my acceptance must be earned stripped away that illusion with surgical precision.

A soft rustle of movement draws my attention to the far corner where Thresh tosses restlessly on his own sleeping furs.

The young warrior has been stealing glances at me since we settled in for the night, his inexperience making his interest painfully obvious.

Under different circumstances, his attention might be flattering.

Tonight, it only emphasizes how utterly alone I am in this place.

You could leave.

The thought whispers through my mind like poison, seductive in its simplicity.

The Stormfang warriors sleep deeply, confident in their strength and the natural barriers that protect their settlement.

It would be easy to slip away into the darkness, to disappear into the vast wasteland beyond and seek my fortune elsewhere.

But where would I go? The dark elves control every civilized territory on this continent, and the stories of other lands are too fragmented to offer real hope. At least here, I have a chance to grow stronger, to learn skills that might keep me alive in a hostile world.

If they let you live long enough to learn them.

Tonight's confrontation with Karg proved how precarious my position really is.

Rogar's protection extends only as far as his authority, and that authority depends on clan support.

How long before the cost of harboring me outweighs any perceived benefit?

How long before even my strongest defender decides I'm more trouble than I'm worth?

I roll onto my side, wincing as the movement pulls at my reopened wound.

The cut from King Kres's ritual blade serves as a constant reminder of what awaits me if I'm recaptured.

Death would be a mercy compared to the prolonged agony he'd devise for an escaped sacrifice who dared embarrass him before his court.

So stay and prove yourself useful. Make them need you.

The pragmatic voice in my head sounds disturbingly like my mother, whose gentle wisdom had kept us both alive longer than anyone expected in Liiandor's brutal hierarchy. She'd taught me to read people, to identify their wants and fears, to position myself as indispensable rather than threatening.

But my mother had died anyway, executed for the crime of healing a human child when a dark elf infant lay sick in the same household. Her usefulness hadn't saved her in the end—it had only delayed the inevitable.

Zahra. The whispered word freezes the blood in my veins. I know that voice, cultured and cold as winter moonlight.

King Kres Ennarmis materializes from the shadows like smoke given form, his violet eyes gleaming with malevolent satisfaction. The sacrificial blade gleams in his pale hand, its edge still stained with my blood.

"Did you truly think you could escape The Serpent's claim?" His voice carries the silk-wrapped steel that had haunted my nightmares for years. "Did you believe distance would protect you from divine justice?"

I try to move, to cry out, but my limbs refuse to obey. The sleeping furs beneath me transform into iron shackles, binding me to the stone altar as surely as if I'd never left his cursed temple.

"The ritual must be completed," Kres continues, raising the blade above my heart. "Your blood belongs to my god, little sacrifice. It always has."

The knife descends.

I bolt upright with a strangled gasp, my heart hammering against my ribs as reality crashes back into focus. The warriors' quarters, the sleeping furs, the distant sound of wind around the area. A dream. Just another nightmare born from trauma and exhaustion.

But the terror lingers, coating my skin like oil, making my hands shake as I push sweat-dampened hair from my face. How many years will pass before I can sleep without seeing his face? How many nights will I wake expecting to find that blade piercing my heart?

"Bad dreams?"

The quiet voice makes me jump, my body coiling for action before I recognize Thresh sitting up on his bedroll. His tusks catch what little starlight filters through the chamber's openings, and his eyes hold surprising gentleness for someone raised in a warrior culture.

"Something like that," I murmur, not trusting my voice to remain steady at higher volumes.

"Want to talk about it?"

The offer surprises me. Orcs, from what I've observed, don't indulge in emotional sharing. Their culture values strength, endurance, the ability to bear pain without complaint. Admitting to nightmares would likely be seen as weakness.

But Thresh is young, barely past his warrior trials according to the conversations I've overheard. Perhaps he hasn't yet learned to suppress the softer impulses that his upbringing tried to beat out of him.

"Not particularly," I say, but I don't lie back down. The thought of closing my eyes, of risking another encounter with Kres's phantom blade, makes my stomach churn.

Thresh nods as if he understands. "First few months after my trials, I couldn't sleep without seeing the enemies I'd killed. Their faces would appear every time I closed my eyes, asking why I'd stolen their lives."

The admission hangs between us, vulnerable and unexpected. I study his profile in the dim light, noting the way his shoulders curve inward as if protecting himself from judgment.

"What changed?" I ask.

"Time. Training. Learning that strength isn't about never feeling fear—it's about facing it anyway." He turns to meet my gaze. "Chieftain Rogar taught me that. Said the warriors who claim they've never been afraid are either liars or fools, and both kinds get good people killed."

Chieftain Rogar. Even in casual conversation, Thresh uses the full title, marking the reverence that seems universal among the younger clan members. What must it be like to inspire such loyalty? To have people follow you not from fear or obligation, but from genuine respect?

"He seems... complicated," I venture.

Thresh's snort of laughter is quickly muffled to avoid waking the others.

"That's one way to put it. Brilliant tactician, fearless in battle, fair in his judgments.

But when it comes to anything outside warfare and clan politics.

.." He trails off, apparently realizing the delicate ground he's approaching.

"He's not good with people," I finish for him.

"He's not good with feelings," Thresh corrects. "People he can handle—inspire them, lead them, earn their loyalty. But anything that requires emotional awareness tends to leave him floundering like a fish on dry land."

The observation aligns uncomfortably well with tonight's events. Rogar had stepped in to defuse the confrontation with Karg, had protected me from immediate harm. But his follow-up comment had revealed a complete misunderstanding of how his words would be received.

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask.

Thresh is quiet for a long moment, considering his answer. "Because I've seen the way he looks at you," he says finally. "And I've seen the way you look at him. There's something there, but you're both too stubborn and scared to name it."

Heat blooms in my cheeks at his blunt assessment. "You're imagining things."

"Am I?" He shifts closer, lowering his voice to barely above a whisper.

"Rogar has never brought a female back to the settlement.

Never shown interest in taking a mate, despite pressure from the elders.

But you appear, and suddenly he's hovering around the training grounds, watching every interaction, ready to tear apart anyone who threatens you. "

"He's protecting a political asset," I protest, but the words sound hollow even to me.

"Political assets don't make him forget to eat. They don't make him pace his tent like a caged beast when you're out of his sight. And they definitely don't make him look like someone kicked his favorite war mount when you withdraw from conversation."

The detailed observations suggest Thresh has been watching far more closely than his casual demeanor would indicate. Either he's naturally perceptive, or the entire clan has noticed the strange dynamics developing between their chieftain and his human refugee.

"Even if you're right," I say carefully, "what difference does it make? I'm human. He's orc. I'm a former slave with enemies who want me dead. He's a clan leader with responsibilities to his people. Nothing can come of whatever... connection... might exist."

"Can't it?" Thresh's eyes gleam with something that might be mischief. "The clan laws speak of strength, not species. If a female proves herself worthy through combat and service, her bloodline becomes irrelevant."

The possibility he's suggesting makes my pulse quicken despite every rational argument against it. Could I actually earn a place here? Not as a tolerated refugee or useful tool, but as a genuine member of the Stormfang Clan?

And what would that cost?