Page 50 of Her Rugged Orcs

Dren appears beside us, silent as death itself. His blade catches the filtered sunlight, and his silver eyes hold that cold focus I've seen countless times before. He's already mapping out kill zones in his head.

"Formation delta," I command, falling naturally into strategy. "Dren, take the flanks. Grash-"

"I know my job," he rumbles, hefting his axe.

My eyes fall on Eira as she steps forward, her blade gripped with purpose. The sight of her makes my heart clench - not with worry, but with pride. Her eyes burn with a warrior's fire now, nothing like the broken slave we found in the pits.

"You don't have to fight," I tell her, though I already know her answer.

She meets my gaze, chin lifted. "Yes, I do."

Something fierce and protective surges through me. She's not just surviving anymore - she's choosing to stand with us. To fight with us. The woman before me has been forged in pain and emerged stronger than steel.

"Then you stay between Grash and me," I order. "We move as one unit."

The horns sound again, and boots thunder through the underbrush. Let them come. They'll learn what happens when you corner four warriors who have vowed to protect each other.

The first arrow cuts through the air like a whisper of death. Dren's hand snaps up, plucking it from its path as if catching a falling leaf. My lips curl into a savage grin - these dark elves have no idea what they're facing.

The second archer doesn't even get to nock his next shot. Grash's axe cleaves through him in a spray of crimson, the wet thud of metal meeting flesh echoing through the trees.

"Formation!" I bark, my blade already singing as I parry a strike meant for Eira's throat. "Keep them from circling!"

The forest erupts in chaos. Steel rings against steel and war cries pierce the morning air. A dark elf lunges at me with a spear - amateur move. I sidestep, grabbing the shaft and yanking him forward onto my blade.

"Behind you!" Eira's warning cuts through the din.

I spin, watching as she ducks under a sword swing, her movements fluid as water. She's beautiful in battle, all grace and deadly precision. Her blade finds the gap in her attacker's armor, and he drops with a gurgle.

"Not bad," I call out, dispatching another enemy with a quick thrust. "But watch your left side!"

"I've got her left," Dren says, his daggers claiming two lives in the space of a heartbeat.

Grash roars somewhere to my right, the sound of splintering armor telling me he's found his rhythm. "Come on, you pointy-eared bastards! Show me what you've got!"

A dark elf captain steps forward, his armor more ornate than the others. His blade whirls in an impressive display as he advances on me.

"Finally," I laugh, rolling my shoulders. "Someone who might actually be worth killing."

Our blades meet in a shower of sparks. He's good - but I'm better. Each strike is calculated, each parry precise. I can see the frustration building in his eyes as I match him move for move.

He snarls, exactly as I predicted. His next strike comes wild, uncontrolled. I slide under it, my blade finding his heart.

The battle rages on around us, but I can't help but notice how Eira moves between us like she was born to it. She's no longer a broken slave - she's become something magnificent and deadly.

"Keep them contained!" I shout, already moving to engage my next opponent. "Don't let them regroup!"

The morning sun catches on our blades as we dance this deadly waltz, four warriors against an army.

I direct our movements with sharp hand signals, keeping us fluid and lethal. These dark elf bastards think they can trap us? I've fought wars before they could hold a blade.

"Circle formation!" I bark, watching as Grash smashes his fist through a scout's face. Blood sprays across his teeth as he laughs, the sound echoing through the trees.

I parry a blade aimed at my throat, spinning to catch another with my elbow. "Keep them off balance! Don't let them surround us!"

Dren moves like death itself, appearing and vanishing between the trees. His daggers flash, and bodies drop in his wake. No sound, no warning - just the wet gurgle of dying men.

A dark elf lieutenant charges at me, blade raised. Amateur. I step inside his guard, my knife finding the gap beneath his ribs. "Too slow," I growl, already moving to my next target.

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