Page 4 of Her Rugged Orcs

3

MUROK

The chains connecting us rattle as Grash lunges forward, the metal links snapping like dried twigs. My wrists sting from the sudden jerk, but I keep my face neutral.

Grash’s fist connects with the champion's jaw. The crack echoes through the arena, followed by the meaty thud of a body hitting dirt. Blood sprays across the sand. The crowd's roar drowns out the champion's gurgled curse.

"Mine," Grash growls, positioning himself between the human woman and the fallen orc.

The human's green eyes widen, darting between Grash and the exits. Her body trembles, but there's something in the way she catalogs every movement, every potential weapon within reach.

I roll my shoulders, feeling my braids brush against my back. "They're going to make you pay for this."

"Let them try." Grash flexes his fingers, fresh blood dripping from his knuckles.

Dex, the pit master, laughs from his elevated platform on the sidelines. His jeweled hand waves lazily at the guards. "Put her behind the big one. For now."

The guards shove her toward Grash. She stumbles but catches herself. Her eyes never stop moving, assessing, and planning. There's fear there, yes, but underneath burns something far more interesting – calculation.

The champion pushes himself to his knees, spitting blood and broken teeth into the sand. His jaw hangs at an unnatural angle. The crowd's excitement builds, betting already starting on when he'll seek revenge on Grash.

I watch the human settle behind Grash, noting how she positions herself to keep both us and the guards in view. Smart. Very smart. She might look fragile, but there's steel beneath that facade of submission. The kind of steel we could use.

"You realize what you've done?" I mutter to Grash, keeping my voice low so only he can hear.

"Shut up, Murok." He doesn't take his eyes off the guards or the champion, his massive frame coiled tight with protective fury.

Sometimes I forget how impulsive he can be, but this time... this time his instincts might have stumbled onto something useful. Whether he knows it or not yet.

The human—Eira, according to the guards' whispers—presses close to Grash's back. Her movements are precise and calculated, like a dancer who's memorized every step to avoid punishment. The champion spits another tooth into the blood-stained sand, his massive frame straightening as rage contorts his features.

Grash's hand reaches back, touching her shoulder in what's meant to be a reassuring gesture. My eyes narrow, catching the subtle differences in her response. Where she had flinched from the guards' touch like a beaten animal, she allows this contact. Interesting. Not trust—no, her eyes are too sharp for that—but recognition of advantage.

"Keep that stance and you'll leave yourself open," I mutter to Grash, noting how his protective posture compromises his defense.

The crowd's bloodlust builds, their chants echoing off the walls now. Dex hasn't rung the bell yet, but the anticipation crackles through the air like lightning before a storm. The champion's broken jaw hasn't dampened his fury—if anything, it's stoked it into something deadly.

I study Eira from the corner of my eye. Her pale blonde hair catches the torchlight, but it's the calculation in those green eyes that keeps drawing my attention to her. She's probably survived this long by being smarter than her captors expected. The way she carries herself speaks of years of careful observation, of learning exactly how much defiance she can show without crossing fatal lines.

Scars mark her pale skin—some fresh, others faded to silver. Each tells a story of rebellion and its price. Yet she hasn't broken. That spark still burns behind her haunted gaze, carefully banked but ready to ignite.

The champion takes another step forward, his massive fists clenching. Blood drips from his mangled jaw onto his chest. The bell hasn't rung, but the tension pulls tighter with each heartbeat.

Grash growls, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Back. Off."

I shift my weight, ready to move when—not if—this explodes into violence. Eira mirrors my movement, her body angling slightly to maintain sight lines on both the champion and the guards. She hasn't spoken a word, but every gesture screams of someone who's learned to read the currents of violence and navigate them.

That could be valuable, if played right. But for now, I keep that observation to myself as the champion's rage builds and we wait for the inevitable sound of the bell.

The bell's harsh clang finally pierces the air. I snap my chains with practiced ease – cheap dark elf metalwork. Beside me, Dren's bonds fall just as easily, the links scattering across the blood-stained sand.

The champion lunges, his broken jaw hanging grotesquely. Blood spatters with each movement, but rage makes him dangerous. His eyes promise death – not just for Grash, but for the fragile human he dares protect.

"Left," I bark at Grash, sliding right as two more fighters emerge from the shadows. Their weapons glint in the torchlight – a sword and axe between them. Amateur move, bringing steel to what should be a bare-knuckle brawl.

Dren melts into the darkness without a word. The crowd's roar drowns out everything but the thunder of blood in my veins. I catch glimpses of Eira behind us, pressed against the arena wall. Her eyes dart between fighters, guards, and exits – always calculating, always planning. Smart girl.

"Getting slow, brother," I taunt as Grash barely dodges the champion's meaty fist.

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