Page 91 of The Shadow Orc's Bride

He turned away, lifted a hand, and the shadows gathered instantly at his call. They rippled outward across the wet grass, spreading like spilled ink, vanishing into the mist.

Eliza felt them move, alive and aware, fanning across the plains in search of something. She stood still, the rain running down her face, watching him. He looked like something ancient, something born of storm and darkness, commanding the night itself.

A few heartbeats passed. The shadows returned, folding inward, whispering along the ground until they slipped back beneath his skin.

He exhaled. "Shazi is near," he murmured. "We'll find them before dawn."

He turned to her and extended his hand. His fingers were warm, almost burning, but beneath that heat she felt the vibration of power, unsteady and dangerous, like holding lightning before it struck.

She hesitated only a moment before taking it.

His grip tightened around hers, sure and steady.

Together, they began to descend the slope, into the mist and the waiting dark.

Chapter

Forty-Seven

Plains stretched to the horizon, dark and slick with dying rain. Moonlight broke through clouds in fitful glances, turning wet grass to dull silver. Maidan's last breath—smoke and steel—lingered on the wind.

Rakhal slowed as they neared the low ridge. The shadows whispered around him, faint and eager. They told him of life ahead: fire, movement, the familiar rhythm of breathing that wasn't human.

"Shazi," he murmured. The word came out like a sigh.

Eliza stirred beside him, her cloak heavy with water. "You're certain?"

He nodded once. "I can smell them. Orc blood doesn't hide from its kin."

The rain had thinned to mist by the time they reached the crest. Below, half-hidden between two outcrops, a small campfire glowed—a dull ember in the dark. Figures hunched around it, cloaked and silent, weapons within reach even in rest. The rhythm of their heartbeats was steady, disciplined.

His. His people.

He motioned to Eliza to stay. She obeyed, watching him from the slope as he stepped into the shadows and let them carry himdown. They folded around him like old friends, his body fading from sight. Only the faint shimmer of his eyes betrayed him.

When he broke from the darkness and into the light of the fire, the orcs reacted at once—hands on blades, eyes wide.

Then Shazi rose.

She had not changed. Slighter than most of his kin, her hair braided with bone and metal, one tusk capped in silver. Her expression flickered: from wariness to disbelief to something like grim amusement.

"By the night," she said, hand dropping from her sword. "You walk like a ghost. Nearly put my blade through you."

"You still could," Rakhal said evenly, stepping closer to the fire. "If your hand hasn't forgotten how."

She laughed—a sharp, throaty sound. "And risk you haunting me for the rest of my life? No, thank you." Her eyes narrowed. "We heard rumors. You were dead."

"Not yet."

"Captured by mages, then strolling out of their dungeon like a shadow's chosen. You always did have a taste for the dramatic." She tilted her head. "And I see you brought a prize."

Eliza had descended the ridge and stood now at its base, hood drawn. Even through the haze Rakhal could see her shiver at the eyes that turned toward her. Shazi's smirk widened.

"A human queen," she said. "You have been busy indeed."

Rakhal's voice sharpened. "Enough."

The humor in her expression faltered. She bowed her head slightly, just enough to acknowledge him. "Forgive me, Marakhal. I forget myself."