Page 8

ROGAR

T he war council gathers in the main assembly cave, its stone walls carved with the chronicles of battles won and warriors fallen.

Torchlight flickers across the faces of my most trusted advisors—Grimna's scarred features set in grim determination, Khela's amber eyes burning with anticipation of combat, and the younger warriors whose courage will be tested before dawn breaks.

But it's the small human figure standing beside me that draws every gaze in the chamber.

Zahra has armed herself with weapons borrowed from our stores—a curved saber at her hip, throwing knives strapped to her thighs, and a short bow across her back.

The leather armor Khela provided fits her like a second skin, emphasizing the lean muscle she's developed through years of surviving impossible circumstances.

She looks every inch a warrior despite her diminutive stature.

She also looks like she belongs here, and that realization sends something possessive and fierce surging through my chest.

"The dark elf force has established three primary camps," I begin, pointing to the rough map scratched into the cave floor. "Here, here, and here. They're confident enough in their superiority to spread their forces thin, believing we'll cower behind our walls until they're ready to attack."

"How many at each position?" asks Vex, one of my senior warriors. His tusks gleam yellow in the torchlight, filed to razor points that speak of countless battles.

"Zahra estimates twenty fighters per camp, with magical support and siege equipment." I glance at her, noting how she stands straighter under the weight of their attention. "She's also identified their most vulnerable points."

"The human has tactical knowledge?" Karg's voice drips skepticism. The older warrior leans forward, his scarred face twisted into a sneer. "Or is she simply telling us what we want to hear to save her worthless hide?"

The insult hangs in the space around us. Several warriors shift uncomfortably, while others nod agreement with Karg's assessment. The division within my own war council threatens to undermine any strategy before we've even begun planning.

"Careful, Karg," I say, my voice carrying the low rumble that precedes violence. "You're questioning my judgment as much as hers."

"Your judgment has been compromised since you brought her here." Karg rises to his full height, his hand moving instinctively toward his weapon. "We should have turned her over to the dark elves the moment they appeared. Better to sacrifice one human than risk the entire clan."

Murmurs ripple through the assembled warriors—some supporting Karg's pragmatic brutality, others maintaining loyalty to my leadership. The schism I've feared since bringing Zahra to the settlement finally erupts into open conflict.

"You would trade honor for safety?" Khela's voice cuts through the tension like a blade. "Since when do Stormfang warriors bow to dark elf demands?"

"Since our chieftain decided to think with his cock instead of his brain," Karg snarls.

The crude accusation ignites something primal and violent in my chest. My war axe clears its sheath before conscious thought intervenes, the double-headed blade gleaming with lethal intent.

Around the circle, other weapons appear as warriors choose sides in a conflict that threatens to tear the clan apart.

"Enough." Zahra's voice, though quiet, somehow carries above the growing chaos. "I’ve roamed the halls of dark elves for years, hidden and in the open. I have gazed upon their tactics, and studied them, so I know what I’m saying. If you want to settle this through combat, face me instead of hiding behind insults. ”

Every eye turns toward her small form, and I see the exact moment when the assembled warriors realize she's completely serious. Her hand rests casually on her saber's grip, and her stance speaks of readiness to back her words with blood.

"You challenge me, human?" Karg's laughter holds no humor. "I've killed dark elves in single combat. What makes you think a former slave presents any threat?"

"The fact that I'm still alive when stronger people are dead." Zahra steps forward, moving with the fluid grace I remember from her training sessions with Khela. "The fact that I've killed before and will kill again if necessary."

"This is madness," Grimna mutters, but he makes no move to intervene. Like the others, he's caught between loyalty to me and genuine uncertainty about the wisdom of my choices.

"Single combat," Zahra continues, her amber eyes fixed on Karg's scarred face. "If I win, you accept my tactical knowledge without question and follow my guidance in tonight's assault. If you win..." She shrugs. "The problem solves itself."

The challenge electrifies the cave. Warriors who moments before seemed ready to draw weapons against each other now focus entirely on this unexpected confrontation. Even Karg appears momentarily stunned by her audacity.

"You can't be serious," he says finally.

"Deadly serious." Zahra draws her saber in one smooth motion, the curved steel singing as it clears the sheath. "Unless you're afraid a 'worthless human' might embarrass you in front of your clan brothers."

The taunt strikes home with surgical precision.

Karg's face darkens with rage, and his own weapon appears in his massive fist—a battle axe nearly as long as Zahra is tall.

The size disparity between them seems almost comical until I remember how she moved against Khela, how she absorbed punishment that would have broken lesser spirits.

"Rogar," Grimna says quietly, "you need to stop this."

"No," I reply, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. "She made the challenge. Let her fight."

The decision feels like stepping off a cliff into empty air. If Zahra falls, I lose not just a valuable advisor but the person who's become central to my vision of the clan's future. If she wins through luck or trickery, it might create more problems than it solves.

But watching her face Karg without flinching, I realize that stopping the fight would be the greater betrayal. She's not asking for protection or rescue—she's demanding the right to prove herself through the same trials every Stormfang warrior must face.

"Circle!" I command, and the assembled warriors move to form the traditional combat ring. "Single combat, no quarter given or asked. The winner's position stands unquestioned."

Karg spits into the sand at the circle's center. "This won't take long."

"No," Zahra agrees, settling into a fighting stance that looks deceptively casual. "It won't."

They circle each other slowly, predator and prey locked in a dance as old as warfare itself. Karg moves with the ponderous confidence of someone who's never doubted his physical superiority, while Zahra flows like water seeking the path of least resistance.

The first exchange happens faster than thought. Karg lunges forward with a devastating overhead strike that would cleave a normal opponent in half. Zahra simply isn't there when the blow lands, having somehow slipped aside and moved into his guard.

Her saber opens a thin line across his ribs before she dances back out of range.

Karg roars in pain and fury, the sound echoing off stone walls like thunder. Blood seeps through his leather armor where her blade found its mark—not a killing blow, but a statement of intent that silences the murmurs from watching warriors.

"Lucky," Karg growls, but uncertainty flickers in his eyes.

"Skill," Zahra corrects, resuming her defensive stance.

They engage again, and this time I can see the method behind her apparent madness.

She's not trying to match his strength or absorb his punishment—she's treating him like a force of nature to be redirected rather than opposed.

Every attack flows into the next defensive position, every retreat sets up the subsequent counter-strike.

It's beautiful and terrifying to watch, like witnessing a master craftsman at work with tools that could easily destroy her if she makes a single mistake.

Karg's second assault is more cautious, probing for weaknesses rather than committing to devastating strikes.

But caution works against him—it gives Zahra time to read his patterns, to identify the tells that precede each attack.

Her blade finds him twice more, shallow cuts that bleed freely and sap his confidence.

"Stand still and fight!" he bellows, frustration overwhelming tactical sense.

"Why?" Zahra's voice holds genuine curiosity. "You're bigger, stronger, and more experienced. Standing still would be suicide."

The admission draws surprised chuckles from several warriors. She's not boasting or trying to prove her superiority—she's simply acknowledging reality while refusing to let it define her limitations.

Karg's next attack comes with the desperate fury of someone who realizes his assumptions might be wrong. He abandons technique in favor of raw aggression, his axe cutting through the air in a series of strikes that would destroy anyone foolish enough to stand against them.

Zahra meets his aggression with patience, letting his momentum carry him past her guard before striking at exposed joints and unarmored flesh. Each cut is precise, calculated to cause maximum pain and blood loss without risking extended engagement.

By the time Karg realizes he's being systematically dismantled, it's too late to change tactics.

His final desperate lunge leaves him overextended and off-balance. Zahra steps inside his guard, her saber finding the gap between his armor plates with surgical precision. The blade slides between his ribs, angled upward toward his heart.

"Yield," she says quietly, "or die."

For a heartbeat, I think Karg might choose death over the humiliation of surrender. His scarred face twists with rage and wounded pride as he weighs his options. Then survival instinct overcomes stubborn pride.

"I yield," he gasps.