Page 8 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
"Brooding, Chieftain?" Grimna's gravelly voice interrupts my surveillance. My second-in-command drops down beside me with a grunt, his own bowl steaming in the cool evening air. "That's becoming a troubling habit."
"Observing," I correct. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" Grimna looks to where Zahra carefully tears apart a piece of flatbread, eating with the mechanical precision of someone who's learned not to waste food. "She handled herself well today. Khela was impressed, though she'd rather eat her own axe than admit it openly."
That draws my attention away from Zahra. "Khela was impressed?"
"Knocked the little human down thirty-seven times," Grimna says with something approaching admiration. "Thirty-seven times, she got back up. No tears, no begging, no demands for mercy. Just pure stubborn determination."
Thirty-seven. The number sits heavy in my chest, heavier than it should. I've seen seasoned warriors quit after less punishment, yet this small human female—already injured and exhausted from her escape—endured hours of brutal training without breaking.
"She's tougher than she looks," I murmur.
"Tough, yes. But tough enough?" Grimna's tone carries the weight of unspoken concerns. "The clan is talking, Rogar. Some say harboring her shows weakness, that you're thinking with your cock instead of your head."
Heat flares in my chest at the crude assessment, though I can't entirely deny its accuracy. There's something about Zahra that calls to parts of myself I'd thought long buried beneath the responsibilities of leadership. Something that makes me want to protect her, claim her, mark her as mine in ways that have nothing to do with practical politics.
"And what do you say?" I ask.
Grimna is quiet for a long moment, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of meat. "I say that you've never been a fool, and I don't think you're starting now. But I also say that keeping her will cost us. The question is whether she's worth the price."
Across the fire pit, Thresh—barely past his warrior trials—approaches Zahra with a second bowl. The young orc's intentions are obvious in the way he puffs out his chest and displays his still-modest tusks. Zahra accepts the food with polite gratitude, but there's no warmth in her expression, no invitation for further interaction.
Thresh doesn't take the hint. He settles beside her without invitation, launching into what I can only assume is a recounting of his hunting prowess. Several other young warriors drift closer, drawn by the novelty of a human female in their midst.
"Idiots," Grimna mutters. "Like moths to flame."
"She can handle herself," I say, but my hand moves instinctively to the grip of my war axe. The casual gesture isn't lost on my second-in-command.
"Can she? Or are you hoping she can so you don't have to intervene and look like a possessive fool?"
The observation hits uncomfortably close to the truth. I've spent the day fighting the urge to hover over Zahra like a protective parent, to insert myself between her and every potential threat or challenge. Such behavior would undermine both her attempts to establish independence and my own authority as an impartial leader. I don’t have any idea where this feeling is coming from.
But watching other males circle her tests the limits of my self-control.
"Tell me something, Grimna," I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "In all our raids against dark elf outposts, have you ever seen a human fight back? Really fight, not just the desperate flailing of cornered prey?"
"No," he admits. "They usually cower and beg. Or try to bargain with information about their masters' weaknesses."
"Zahra didn't cower. She stood her ground and traded words with Khela like an equal. And today, she endured punishment that would break most humans without a single complaint."
"So?"
"So maybe the stories we tell about human weakness are just that—stories. Maybe we've only seen them at their worst, broken and defeated, because that's the only time we encounter them."
Grimna's silence suggests he's considering the possibility. Around the fire pit, Thresh has moved closer to Zahra, his voice growing louder as he tries to impress her with increasingly outlandish tales of his combat prowess. She listens with the polite attention of someone who recognizes the need to avoid offense while harboring no actual interest.
Then Karg arrives.
The older warrior carries his scars like trophies, each mark a testament to battles survived and enemies defeated. His tusks are filed to deadly points, and his eyes hold the cold calculation of someone who's learned to see violence as a tool rather than a passion. He's also one of the most vocal opponents of my decision to harbor Zahra.
"Little human," Karg says, his voice carrying clearly across the fire pit. "I hear you claimed to kill dark elves. Brave words for someone who spent years licking their boots."
The temperature around the fire seems to drop several degrees. Conversations falter as clan members turn to witness the confrontation. Zahra sets down her bowl with deliberate care, her movements controlled despite the obvious tension in her shoulders.
"I did what was necessary to survive," she says quietly. "Sometimes that meant submission. Sometimes it meant violence."
"And which serves you now?" Karg steps closer, looming over her seated form. "Will you submit to Stormfang authority, or do you plan to poison our food when we displease you?"
