Page 31 of The Shadow Orc's Bride

Rakhal summoned the shadows once more.

They stirred reluctantly at first, tugged from the corners of the room where dawn had begun to creep in. Pain lanced through him, sharp and immediate. Blood trickled from his nose, metallic on his lips. The old scar across his abdomen—a gift from a Ketheri mage—split open, seeping crimson down his side. His vision darkened, tunneling to a narrow point, and the runes etched into his skin burned white-hot, as if trying to cauterize the shadows' hold on him.

The effort was harder now. Always harder when the light of day threatened to flood the stronghold. The darkness thinned in places, stretched, resisted.

But shadows were always there.Always.

And he drew them in with a predator's patience, wrapping them close until the familiar cloak shrouded him again. The cold weight settled over his shoulders, into his bones, sinking into him like a second skin.

He needed stealth. Not for the stronghold's guards—none of them could stand against him. But because his father would not be swayed by logic or words alone.

The king needed to feel something else.

Fear.

For years, Rakhal had been his father's blade, loyal and silent, a weapon forged for his hand. But this time would be different. His father needed to understand—truly understand—what Rakhal had become.

The war had sharpened him. Strengthened him.

And the madness that came with the bloodshed...

That, too, had grown.

They didn't know. None of them realised. He had concealed it, buried it deep beneath obedience and silence. But the shadows whispered the truth: he was no longer just his father's weapon.

He was somethingmore.

And it was time the king learned it.

He left his office, then his chambers, sealing the great door behind him with deliberate finality. The corridor stretched before him, walls of sandstone carved with ancient runes that glowed faintly in the darkness, pulsing with the heartbeat of the stronghold itself. Cold air flowed through hidden vents in the ceiling, carrying the scent of iron and earth from the forges deep below. The distant sound of hammers striking anvils echoed through the stone, a constant rhythm that had been the backdrop to his life since returning from the forest. Above, through narrow slits cut into the walls, stars gleamed like cold eyes watching his passage.

The queen slept within, curled in the warmth of the hearth, his shirt still about her shoulders.

She wasn't a fool. He knew without doubt that she wouldn't try to escape. She understood the implications, understood what would await her beyond those doors. She understood what was at stake.

Invisible once more in the twilight of morning, Rakhal slipped through the corridors like a breath of wind. His pathwound through familiar passages, past great halls and silent sentries, then down into lesser-used walkways, hidden routes carved long ago into the stronghold's bones.

At last, he reached the door of his father's chambers.

Two guards stood before it, broad-shouldered, tusks bared even in the stillness of dawn.

They never saw him coming.

A blur of shadow, a sudden ripple in the air—and Rakhal struck. A chop to one neck, swift and precise, then another. Both crumpled silently to the floor, unconscious but alive.

He stepped past them without pause.

The lock yielded under his touch, shadows curling to tease the mechanism until it clicked softly open. He slipped inside.

The king's chambers spread before him, vast and imposing. Unlike his own spartan quarters, his father's domain was adorned with trophies of war—human shields mounted on walls, banners taken from fallen enemies, weapons of exceptional craftsmanship displayed on stands of polished bone. The ceiling soared high, carved with the history of the clan, each battle and triumph etched in relief. Massive support pillars rose from the floor, each one carved from a single ancient tree, their surfaces worn smooth by generations of hands. Between them hung heavy tapestries depicting the shadow orcs' creation myth—how they had been born from the union of darkness and stone in the first days of the world.

The smell of burning oils and ink stained the dark. The heavy curtains blocked the rising sun, cloaking the chamber in gloom.

Rakhal moved across the floor without a sound, shadows stretching ahead of him like eager hounds.

And there, in the heart of the room, the king lay sleeping.

He stalked up to his father's bed.