Page 5 of Her Rugged Orcs

"Shut up and fight," he growls, landing a devastating counter that sends teeth flying.

I duck under a wild sword swing, driving my elbow into my attacker's throat. The wet crunch is satisfying. "Already am."

Dren materializes behind the axe-wielder, silver eyes gleaming as he snaps the man's neck with surgical precision. The body drops without a sound.

The champion bellows, charging through Grash's guard like a battering ram. They crash into the wall near Eira. She flinches but doesn't cry out, her face a mask of controlled terror as she slides away from the impact.

"Move," I command her, gesturing to a safer position. She complies instantly, her movements fluid and practiced.

Blood sprays as Grash's fist connects with the champion's temple. The larger orc staggers but doesn't fall. His counterpunch catches Grash in the ribs with a crack that makes the crowd howl.

I dispatch my opponent with a precise strike to the base of his skull, then pivot to help Grash. But he's already recovered, his protective fury burning brighter than the pain. The champion never sees the killing blow coming – Grash's hands on either side of his head, one savage twist, and it's finally over.

The arena falls silent as the champion's body hits the sand. Eira's rapid breathing is the only sound until the crowd erupts in approval. She remains against the arena wall, trembling, but her eyes never stop moving, never stop assessing her environment.

She seems smart and dangerous. But then again, so are we.

The pit master's voice cuts through the roar of the crowd. "We have new champions!"

4

DREN

The roar of the crowd pounds against my skull as I stand in the blood-soaked sand. My hands are clean while Grash and Murok wear the evidence of our victory. The champion's body lies still at Grash's feet. My own kill – swift, precise, merciful – rests in the shadows where he fell. The metallic scent of blood mingles with sweat and sand, carried on the cool breeze that whips through the stadium.

"We have new champions!" Dex booms across the arena. "The new kings of the pits!"

My silver gaze sweeps the crowd, marking each exit, each guard position. The dark elf nobles lean forward in their gilded boxes. Their pale faces are hungry for more violence. Behind us, the human woman's breathing comes quick and shallow. She stays close to Grash's shadow, smart enough to know where safety lies.

"That was quite the show," Murok mutters as we begin our victory march from the arena. His braids are slick with sweat, but his movements remain fluid and controlled.

"Needed to be done," Grash rumbles back.

The guards trail behind us, their boots crunching in the sand. They keep their distance, playing to the spectacle of three unbound orc champions.

Grash's cloak sweeps the ground as he walks, hiding the tension in his shoulders. He's watching Eira without turning his head, tracking her movements like a precious cargo that might slip away.

The crowd's cheering follows us down the tunnel, echoing off the stone walls. The air grows cooler, damper, heavy with the smell of torch smoke and iron bars.

The torchlight catches on Eira's pale hair, making it gleam like stolen gold. She moves like a shadow herself, adapting to our pace, staying just close enough to be protected but not so close as to seem desperate. I respect that.

"That was almost too easy," Murok says as he walks.

Grash grunts. "Don't jinx it."

The tunnel curves, leading to the champion cells. Different from the regular pens, but a cage all the same.

The shadows shift ahead – a warning I catch too late. Guards pour from the tunnel's mouth. Their armor gleams dully in the torchlight as they surge forward, weapons drawn.

Behind us, more movement. The dark elf guards who'd been trailing us spring into action.

"Predictable," Murok spits as rough hands grab his braids.

A guard's fingers dig into my bicep. Amateur. I could break his grip in three different ways, but I hold still. Watching. Waiting. Calculating.

Eira's sharp intake of breath draws my attention. A dark elf guard has her by the throat. The sound of flesh meeting flesh soon echoes off the walls as he backhands her. Her head snaps to the side. Her hands tremble – a slight movement most would miss – before she stills them.

Pride and fury surge through my chest. Even now, she refuses to show weakness.

---