Page 12 of Scoring the Orc

"Stay firm, brothers!" I shout over the din, my voice a rallying cry. We are an unbreakable line, each of us aware of the stakes. Victory is within our reach, and we can almost taste the sweet nectar of triumph and the spoils it will bring.

The dark elves' desperation is palpable; they fling themselves against us with a wildness that speaks of their fear of defeat. Aleryn, amid the chaos, is a whirlwind of darkness and sharper spells, his elegant features twisted in a snarl. He darts forward, a blur of motion, trying to pierce our defenses, his hands weaving complex incantations that send shivers of dark magic skittering across the field.

But we are unyielding. With each wave of their assault, we respond in kind—bodies braced and arms outstretched to wrangle the dark elves to the ground. The clash of magic against muscle, the grunts and shouts of exertion blend into a symphony of battle. My heart beats a furious rhythm, adrenaline coursing through my veins like wildfire.

As the magical ball ricochets near, I lunge with outstretched hands, my eyes locked on its shimmering form. The field around me narrows, the noise fades, and there's only the ball, glowing like a star against the night. This is it. This is our moment.

9

EMILIA

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head while the rest of the arena trembles with the intensity of the cheers. “No, no.”

The orc team manages to score yet again, all thanks to the orc captain who doesn’t flinch even if all of the dark elves lunge his way. He’s an unstoppable force, one that the dark elves can’t control despite their many attempts.

His teammates take the fall for him, time and time again. Even as there are orcs hauled off the field with grotesque injuries, they do it with a smile.

“Jurto is a fucking wonder,” a fan nearby says, obviously referring to the orc captain. I’ve basically learned all of the orcs’ names because of conversations flying around me. “Aleryn was a fool to challenge him.”

“Aleryn is not as good as he used to be! It’s pathetic!”

They might be right, but for my own sake, I need Aleryn to do better. He needs to be the star player he used to be.

Otherwise, I’m as good as dead.

My heart hammers in my chest as the orcs take possession again during the final play. The ground vibrates beneath my feet, resonating with the thunderous roars from the crowd. I glance around, helplessly watching the dark elves scatter across the field like leaves in the wind. They're desperate, uncoordinated.

I gnaw on my nails, the sharp pain as they tear to the quick barely registers over the crushing anxiety. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, a grim reminder of the stakes at play. I can't stop, each ragged bite driven by an uncontrollable fear.

I know what’s going to happen to me if the dark elves lose. And I’m not ready to face that reality. Not yet. Not in such a humiliating way, in a stadium filled with fans who would give up their lives to see the Bloodcrushers win another match. The thoughts circle in my mind, a relentless predator.

Across the field, Aleryn's face is a mask of fury and humiliation. His usual poise shattered, replaced by a raw, desperate energy. He shouts orders, but his voice drowns in the cacophony of the stadium. His team is crumbling, and with each fumble, a piece of my hope crumbles too.

Jurto, charges forward like a beast unleashed. His teammates fall around him, their sacrifices painting a brutal path towards the goal. Despite their injuries, they rise, faces split with grins, as if each blow they take is a victory in itself. It's terrifying, the way they revel in their pain, as if they're already celebrating their win.

"Jurto is unstoppable! None of those damn dark elves can even touch him!" someone near me shouts, their voice dripping with awe and exhilaration. I try to swallow, but my throat is tight with dread. Aleryn used to be that unstoppable force, the name on every fan's lips. Now, whispers of his decline buzz around me, ridden with disgust and animosity towards the dark elf who crumbled under the immense pressure of the game..

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, willing Aleryn to find that spark he was famed for. He needs to be the champion he once was, not just for his pride, but for my very survival. The fear is a constant thrum, as pervasive and unyielding as the noise that fills the arena.

But Aleryn has failed me before. And it looks like he’s going to do it yet again, in front of all his fans who would rather him dead than on the field right now.

The air crackles with energy as the Nightswords, Aleryn's team, unleash every ounce of their magic in a desperate, last-ditch effort to turn the tide. The field lights up with brilliant flashes of light, colors swirling like a stormy sea. It's beautiful, in a terrifying sort of way, and for a moment, it feels like hope might not be lost.

But then, the hulking figures of the orc players emerge through the chaos, their massive forms barely affected by the magical assault. They move like boulders rolling downhill, unstoppable, their momentum seemingly boosted by the very forces meant to hinder them. It's as if each spell only adds fuel to their fiery determination, and my heart sinks with each thunderous step they take.

I want to shut my eyes, to block out the impending doom, but I can't. My gaze is locked onto the field, drawn to the spectacle with a morbid fascination. The clash of magic and might right before me is like watching the inevitable crash of lightning, terrifying yet mesmerizing.

Aleryn's face contorts with effort as he casts spell after spell, his hands moving in a blur. The veins on his neck stand out, a testament to his desperation. He's fighting not just for victory but for redemption, his pride hanging on by a thread. The air around him shimmers with heat and magic, but it's not enough. The orcs, led by Jurto, seem to thrive under pressure, their grins wide and wild as they push forward, undeterred.

“What the fuck are they doing?!” a dark elf fan shouts, resting his hands on his head. He looks like he’s about to tear his own hair out. “Aleryn, you coward bastard!”

The crowd's roar reaches a fever pitch, a mixture of awe and horror filling the arena. Every muscle in my body tenses as I watch the orcs near the goal, their path cleared by sheer force and relentless aggression. The Nightswords falter, their defense crumbling under the weight of orcish resolve.

"Come on, Aleryn!" I whisper fiercely, almost believing that my words could reach him across the chaotic expanse. My hands clench into fists, nails digging into my palms, mirroring the clash of forces on the field. The desperation, the fierce need for Aleryn to reclaim his former glory—it all swirls inside me, a storm that mirrors the tumult around us.

With a final, mighty heave that seems to draw on the very depths of his primal strength, Jurto launches the ball. It cuts through the air, a swift comet trailing the hopes and fears of everyone watching. Time seems to slow, the world holding its breath as the ball arcs perfectly towards the magically hovering goal.

It sails through. The goal shimmers, confirming the score, and the stadium erupts into a cacophony of ecstatic roars. The sound is deafening, a tidal wave of joy and despair crashing over the stands. My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach, a cold dread washing over me.

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