Page 15 of Her Rugged Orcs

"I'm just using every possible tactic that might keep us alive." I pause, listening to the night sounds. "The dark elves are arrogant. They'll expect us to run blindly. Instead, we're going to disappear like we never existed."

We continue through the darkness, every step taking us further from the pits. But freedom isn't just about distance – it's about outsmarting those who would drag us back. And I intend to do exactly that.

The forest floor soon grows treacherous with exposed roots and fallen branches. Eira's breathing comes harder now, each step more labored than the last. Her pale skin gleams with sweat in the scattered moonlight.

"We need to move quicker," I say, watching her stumble over another root. The dark elves won't stay confused by our false trails forever.

Ahead of us, a massive log blocks our path. Before Eira can protest, Grash scoops her up like she weighs nothing.

"I can handle myself," she snaps, but her fingers linger on his arm even after he sets her down. Interesting.

"Save your strength," I tell her. "Pride won't help if the dark elves catch us because you're too exhausted to run."

The night air grows colder as we push southeast. Owl calls echo through the trees, and somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls. Good – the wildlife means we're alone out here. For now.

"Your legs are shaking," I observe when Eira trips again.

She shoots me a venomous look. "I'm fine."

"You're not," Dren speaks up from behind us, his voice low. "You've never traveled like this before."

"I said I'm fine." Her voice cracks on the last word.

I grab her arm, forcing her to meet my gaze. "Listen carefully. Your stubbornness will get us all killed. Accept help when it's offered, or I'll have Grash carry you the rest of the way whether you like it or not."

Her eyes flash, but something in my expression must convince her because she gives a sharp nod.

"Keep moving," I order, releasing her arm. "Dawn's only a few hours away, and we need more distance between us and those pits."

The undergrowth grows thicker as we press on for several more miles, thorns catching at our clothes.

"We should rest soon," Dren says quietly.

I scan our surroundings, assessing every shadow and sound. The terrain slopes upward, offering decent visibility of approaching threats. A cluster of dense bushes provides cover to our left. My mind automatically catalogs defensive positions, escape routes, choke points – habits burned into me from years of warfare.

"There's a cave ahead," I say, pointing to a dark opening partially hidden by hanging vines. "We'll stop there."

Eira pauses for a heartbeat, her eyes darting between the cave entrance and our faces. Then she follows without protest. The trust in that simple action unsettles me. Here she is, walking into a dark cave with three male orcs who could easily overpower her. Either she's smarter than I thought, or more foolish.

"Dren, secure the perimeter. Grash, gather some dry wood for a small fire. We'll need the warmth, but keep it controlled – minimal smoke."

They move to their tasks without argument. Good. At least some habits from our military days remain useful.

I guide Eira deeper into the cave, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. The space opens wider than expected, with a low ceiling that forces me to duck slightly. The rock walls curve inward, creating natural alcoves perfect for defense.

"Stay here," I tell her, pressing her against the wall with one hand while I check the deeper recesses. The cave narrows to nothing but solid rock. No surprise visitors from behind, then.

"I can help search," she says, that stubborn lift to her chin making another appearance.

"You can barely stand." I return to her side, noting how she leans against the wall for support. "Your legs are shaking, your breathing is labored, and you've been favoring your right ankle for the past mile."

"I didn't realize you were watching so closely," she says, glancing up at me.

"I watch everything." I meet her gaze directly with an intensity that causes her to shiver visibly.

The sound of Grash returning with firewood echoes off the cave walls. Smart – he's making noise deliberately so we know it's him.

I guide Eira toward where Grash crouches by the small pile of kindling. His massive hands work with surprising delicacy as he strikes flint against steel, sparks catching in the dry tinder. Within moments, a small flame flickers to life, casting dancing shadows on the cave walls.

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