Page 21 of Her Rugged Orcs

The sight stirs something primal in me - pride mixed with an edge of fear. This isn't the same woman who trembled in the pits. This is someone forged in blood and steel, someone dangerous.

I shift closer to Eira, my back nearly touching hers. Her breathing is steady, controlled. When did she learn to be so calm in battle?

Another dark elf rushes at me, but I'm already swinging. My axe catches him in the chest, and the satisfying crunch of bone tells me he won't be getting up again. The metallic scent of his blood fills my nostrils, feeding the battle rage coursing through my veins.

Eira dances past me, her movements fluid and deadly. Her blade finds the throat of a charging elf, and she doesn't hesitate as she pulls it across his neck. The precision of her strike makes me smile with pride.

"Left!" Murok shouts.

I spin, catching the last attacker's sword with my axe handle. The clash of steel rings through the forest. One powerful shove sends him stumbling back, and Dren materializes from the shadows to finish him with a quick thrust through the spine.

Silence falls over the bloodied clearing. My chest heaves as I scan for more threats, but there are none. Just corpses cooling in the dawn air.

Eira stands among the dead, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Blood stains her cheek crimson, a stark contrast against her pale skin. Her knife drips steadily onto the forest floor, and her eyes are wild with adrenaline.

"You're learning fast," I say, stepping closer. My thumb brushes across her cheek, wiping away the blood. The touchsends electricity through my arm, and I notice how she leans into my hand ever so slightly.

Her eyes meet mine, and something shifts in them. Fear? Desire? Both? My hand slides to cup her jaw, and I feel her pulse racing beneath my fingers.

"I have good teachers," she whispers.

I should step back. Give her space. But the warrior in me, the primal part that claimed her in those pits, wants to pull her closer.

Her lips part slightly, and for a second, I think she might close that distance between us. Instead, she takes a small step back, breaking contact with my hand. The loss of her warmth hits worse than any blade.

We soon push southeast through dense underbrush, leaving the carnage behind. My boots crush fallen leaves with each step, but my attention isn't on our path - it's on Eira. She's keeping her distance, walking closer to Dren than to me. The space between us feels wrong.

Did I push too far back there? The memory of her skin under my thumb burns like a brand. The way she leaned into my touch, just for a moment, before pulling away...

"We need to find water soon," Murok says, breaking into my thoughts. "The stream should be close."

I grunt in acknowledgment, but my eyes track Eira as she navigates around a fallen log. Her movements are more confident now, less hesitant. The way she handled herself in that fight... She was magnificent. Deadly and beautiful.

"You're staring," Murok mutters, low enough that only I can hear.

"Mind your own business," I growl back. But he's right. I am staring. I can't help it. Everything in me wants to close this distance between us, to pull her up against me and...

She glances back, catching my gaze. For a heartbeat, those green eyes hold mine, and I see something there - confusion, want, fear? Then she looks away, moving closer to Dren's shadow.

My hands tighten into fists. She's mine. Has been since I claimed her in those pits. But claiming isn't enough anymore. I want her to choose me, to trust me. To want me the way I want her.

15

MUROK

The rainstorm hits without warning, a torrent that turns the forest path into treacherous mud. Through sheets of water, I spot the crumbling stone ruins ahead—an ancient outpost. Its walls are still standing despite nature's best efforts to reclaim it.

"There." I point toward the structure. Lightning splits the sky, illuminating Eira's drenched form. Her thin silk dress clings to her body, and something primal stirs in me at the sight. I push the feeling down and focus on survival.

We sprint through the downpour, our feet splashing through puddles. The ruins offer a reprieve—barely. Water drips through cracks in the ceiling, but it's better than being exposed to the elements.

"We stay here until the rain passes," I announce, shaking water from my braids.

Grash paces the perimeter. "Place seems secure enough."

Dren melts into the darkest corner, his silver eyes gleaming as he watches the entrance. Water runs in rivulets down his face, but he remains motionless, ever vigilant.

I assess our shelter—stone walls rise fifteen feet high, with narrow windows perfect for spotting approaching threats. The roof, though partially collapsed in places, should hold.

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