Page 3 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
"A dark elf sacrifice," I rumble, circling her slowly while my warriors maintain their positions. "Escaped, by the look of things. The question is whether you're worth more to us alive or dead."
She lifts her chin, meeting my gaze without flinching. Impressive. Most humans would be sobbing or begging by now. "I suppose that depends on what kind of monsters you are."
Laughter rumbles from my chest before I can stop it. "Monsters? Little human, we are the Stormfang Clan. We don't deal in monsters—we are the storm that breaks them."
"How poetic," she says, and there's actual venom in her voice. "I'm sure your victims appreciate the literary flair before you gut them."
Interesting. Fire burns in this one, despite her obvious fear. I can smell it on her—the sharp tang of terror mixed with something far more intriguing. Determination. She's prepared to fight, even knowing she cannot win.
My second-in-command, Grimna, shifts restlessly on my left. His massive war axe remains sheathed, but his hand hovers near the grip. "Chieftain, we should move. Dark elf patrols will be searching for her soon."
He's right, of course. The explosion that shook Liiandor last night was felt even here, thirty miles into the Orclands. Whatever attack allowed this female to escape, it won't keep the dark elves occupied forever. And King Kres Ennarmis is not known for accepting losses gracefully.
"What's your name, sacrifice?" I ask, taking another step closer. She doesn't retreat, though every instinct must be screaming at her to run.
"Zahra." The name falls from her lips like a challenge. "And I'm nobody's sacrifice."
"No," I agree, studying the thin scar along her jawline, the way she holds herself despite her injuries. "I don't believe you are."
The admission surprises even me. In my long years, I've learned to read potential threats, allies, and prey with ruthless accuracy. This human registers as all three simultaneously—a contradiction that sets my teeth on edge.
"Rogar," Grimna warns, his voice dropping to the rumbling bass we use for private communication. "She's dark elf property. Harboring her brings war to our territory."
"War was coming regardless," I reply in the same tone, never taking my eyes off Zahra. She watches our exchange with sharp intelligence, though she cannot understand the words. "Kres has been pushing his boundaries for months. This simply forces his hand sooner."
Grimna's silence speaks volumes. He knows I'm right, but that doesn't make the decision easier. The Stormfang Clan has survived by choosing our battles carefully, striking hard and fast before melting back into the hostile landscape that serves as our fortress. Taking in a escaped dark elf sacrifice could be seen as either bold leadership or reckless stupidity.
Time will tell which.
"You have a choice, Zahra," I say, switching back to common tongue. "You can come with us willingly, or we can bind you and drag you back to our settlement. Either way, you're leaving this place."
Her hands clench into fists at her sides. "And if I refuse both options?"
"Then you die here in the wasteland, alone and forgotten." I shrug, the motion making my armor creak. "The sun will bleach your bones white within a week, and the next traveler will step over your skull without a second thought."
The brutal honesty hits her like a physical blow, but she doesn't crumble. Instead, she straightens her spine and fixes me with a glare that could melt steel. "You paint such a vivid picture. Do all orc chieftains double as poets?"
Another surprise. Humor in the face of mortal peril—either she's braver than any human I've encountered, or madness has already claimed her. Both possibilities intrigue me more than they should.
"Mount up," I command my warriors without breaking eye contact with Zahra. "We return to camp immediately."
"What about the human?" asks Thresh, my youngest warrior. His tusks are barely visible beneath his upper lip, marking him as barely past his coming-of-age trials.
"She rides with me."
The declaration hangs in the air. Even Grimna's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. I've never taken a prisoner aboardmy mount, never shown such consideration to captured prey. But something about this female demands a response I cannot name.
Zahra's eyes widen as I approach my war beast—a magnificent specimen named Sunder, whose scales shimmer like oil in the morning light. His head alone is larger than her entire torso, and his teeth could snap her in half without effort.
"I've never ridden one of those things," she says, and for the first time, uncertainty creeps into her voice.
"Batlaz are not 'things,'" I correct, running my hand along Sunder's neck. "They are partners, companions in battle and hunt. This is Sunder, and he has carried me through more fights than you've seen sunrises."
The great beast rumbles deep in his chest, a sound that vibrates through the ground beneath our feet. Zahra takes an involuntary step backward, and I catch her arm before she can fall. Her skin is soft beneath my calloused fingers, pale and smooth except for the network of small scars that mark a life of hardship.
"He won't hurt you," I say, surprised by the gentleness in my own voice. "Not while you're under my protection."
"And how long does that protection last?" she asks, looking up at me with those dark amber eyes.
