Page 9 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
The accusation is like a rope around my neck. Around the fire pit, hands drift toward weapons as the clan waits to see how this challenge will resolve itself. Zahra could deflect with humor, appeal to my protection, or simply endure the insult in silence.
Instead, she stands.
She's tiny compared to Karg, barely reaching his chest even at full height, but something in her posture makes the size difference irrelevant. Power radiates from her small frame—not the raw physical strength that orcs respect, but the kind of inner steel that doesn't bend or break under pressure.
"I killed two dark elves," she says, her voice carrying clearly across the now-silent gathering. "Not because I enjoyed it, but because they threatened people I cared about. If anyone in this clan threatens those under my protection, they'll discover whether I'm capable of similar action."
The words are a declaration of intent as much as a response to Karg's challenge. She's not promising submission or violence—she's establishing her own code of honor, her own lines that cannot be crossed.
Karg's hand moves to his axe handle. "Threatening the clan, human?"
"Stating my position," Zahra corrects. "I won't start fights, but I'll finish them if necessary."
The standoff stretches taut as a bowstring. Karg is well within his rights to demand satisfaction for the perceived slight, and clan law would support him in teaching this presumptuous human her place. But something in Zahra's stance gives him pause—a confidence that suggests she's not bluffing about her willingness to fight.
"Enough."
My voice cuts through the tension like a blade through bamboo shoots. I rise from my observation post and stride toward the fire pit, my footsteps deliberately heavy on the stone. Every eye turns toward me, gauging my mood, measuring my intentions.
"Karg," I say, stopping just within arm's reach of the older warrior. "Is there a problem here?"
His scarred face twists into a scowl. "The human needs to learn respect, Chieftain. Her words border on threats against clan members."
"Do they?" I turn to study Zahra, noting the way she holds herself despite being outnumbered and outmatched. "What I heard was someone establishing boundaries. Declaring that she'll protect those who matter to her, even at personal cost. Sounds familiar, actually."
Several clan members chuckle at the comparison. It's exactly the kind of declaration a warrior might make when joining a new clan, a statement of values and intentions that establishes their place in the social hierarchy.
"She's human," Karg protests. "They don't have honor codes. They don't protect anything but their own worthless hides."
"This one killed two dark elves to protect others," I remind him. "Endured years of torture rather than betray friends. Spent today getting beaten bloody by Khela without complaint. What part of that suggests cowardice to you?"
Karg's jaw works as he searches for a response that won't sound like open defiance of his chieftain. Around the fire pit, I can see opinion shifting—not toward outright acceptance of Zahra, but toward grudging recognition that she might be more than they initially assumed.
"She stays," I continue, my voice carrying the absolute authority of command. "She trains with our warriors, eats at our fires, and sleeps under our protection. Anyone who finds thatarrangement unsatisfactory is welcome to leave and find a clan more suited to their sensibilities."
The challenge is unmistakable. Karg can accept my decision or openly rebel against my leadership. There's no middle ground, no face-saving compromise.
After a moment that feels like eternity, Karg's hand drops away from his weapon. "Understood, Chieftain."
He turns and stalks away from the fire pit, several of his closest allies following in his wake. The gathering slowly returns to normal conversation, though I notice many glances still drift toward Zahra. She's become a curiosity now rather than just an intruder—someone who commands the chieftain's protection and has earned a grudging measure of respect.
"That was... intense," Thresh says, his earlier bravado replaced by obvious nervousness.
"Welcome to clan politics," Zahra replies dryly. "Though I have to say, your version is more direct than the dark elf approach. They prefer poison and hired assassins to public confrontation."
Her casual tone draws surprised laughter from several young warriors. The ability to find humor in tense situations—it's a trait that endears fighters to their comrades, builds the kind of bonds that hold units together under stress.
"Chieftain," Zahra says, turning toward me. "Thank you for the intervention, though I'm not sure it was necessary."
"You think you could have handled Karg alone?"
Something predatory flickers in her dark amber eyes. "I think it would have been educational for both of us."
The response sends heat shooting through my veins. She's not boasting or trying to impress anyone—she's simply stating a fact. Whatever skills she developed during her years as a slave, whatever methods she used to survive and kill her oppressors,she believes they would be sufficient against a veteran orc warrior.
Either she's dangerously overconfident, or there's more to her capabilities than anyone realizes.
"Perhaps," I say carefully. "But clan harmony serves everyone better than blood feuds."
