Page 20 of The Shadow Orc's Bride

The only thing standing between her and the fury of the Varak clan was him.

And he seemed to think he alone could protect her.

Her pulse quickened. Who was he, really? An assassin? A shaman? Some unholy mix of shadow-mage and warrior? In all the battles she had fought, in all the carnage she had witnessed, she had never seen anyone like him.

Not once.

What was more confusing than anything was the way he carried himself.

He didn't just think he could call the shots—he did. Calmly, coldly, with the quiet certainty of someone who expected no challenge. She would marry an orc prince, he had declared. It hadn't been posed as a suggestion, nor even as an order from his king.

It had been decided.

By him.

As if he alone had the authority to choose her fate.

Eliza's jaw tightened. He wasn't an ordinary soldier, that much was certain. No common warrior could have scaled her tower, could have smothered the wards and slipped through her castle unseen, could have carried her this far across the plains like a shadow of death.

No ordinary orc would have stayed his hand, deciding to spare her life for calculated reasons.

Whoever—whatever—he was, he stood outside the rank and file.

The landscape changed as they moved deeper into orc territory. The rolling plains gave way to rockier terrain, the ground rising gradually until massive stone formations loomed against the night sky. Unlike Istrial's elegant towers, these structures seemed to grow from the earth itself—imposing, ancient, unmovable. They had been built not to impress, but to endure.

The scenery shifted quickly around her as they reached the outskirts of the orc settlement. Low, round thatched huts squatted against the earth, their shapes dim and indistinct beneath the moonlight. The air was heavy with the smell of woodsmoke and cooked meat, but the night was quiet—eerily so. Like the humans of Istrial, the orcs, too, slept.

The night air was crisp, sharper here in the open plains. Eliza tilted her head back as far as her bonds allowed and glimpsed the sky. The stars shone brilliantly, scattered in thick swathes across the black dome above. Brighter, sharper than she had ever seen from the castle, where mage-lanterns flooded the streets and smothered the heavens.

He wove the shadows around them once more, the veil settling heavy, muffling sight and sound. Strange, she thought, that he would cloak them here, among his own kin—as though he didn't want even his allies to see.

They passed beyond the settlement and into a massive stone structure that rose like a jagged tooth from the earth. Hewn sandstone, angular, pyramid-shaped. The orc stronghold proper. Its walls loomed twice as thick as the castle walls of Istrial, built to endure centuries of siege and fire.

Inside, the corridors stretched vast and empty, the air colder. His footsteps whispered soundless across swept stone floors, the shadows clinging close.

The place was spartan, stripped bare of comfort. Brutalist, efficient, built for war.

They passed guards—hulking figures posted at intervals, their axes propped at their sides. None turned their heads. And yet some shivered faintly, as if a chill had brushed them, as though they sensed a presence but could not place it.

Eliza stared, her mind racing. They were shadow orcs themselves, weren't they? Shouldn't they see him?

Apparently not.

That confirmed her suspicions.

Amongst the orcs, he was unusual. Different. He stood apart.

None of the guards stirred, none challenged him, none even glanced his way, though he passed so close she could see the rise and fall of their breath. Wrapped in his veil of shadows, he moved her through the heart of their stronghold unseen.

It was a frightening truth—he could have done the same in Istrial.

He could hide her in the shadows even amidst her own people. He could carry her through crowded streets, past soldiers sworn to protect her, and none would know. He could steal her away from her very throne and no one would be the wiser until it was far too late.

A sudden chill coursed through her, sharp enough to steal her breath and cut through even the heat pressed against her. The one constant through all of this—the fall from her tower, the run across the plains, the endless shadows—had been his warmth. His body was like a furnace, radiating heat that seeped into her despite her thin nightgown.

It must be freezing for him too, exposed to the night air, but he didn't seem to care. Didn't seem to feel it at all.

Maybe orcs are immune to the cold.