Page 29 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
Ice floods my veins as the implications hit. Internal security breaches, information passed to enemies, the systematic betrayal of trust that holds warrior societies together. Someone within the Stormfang has been feeding intelligence to dark elf forces.
"Who?" The word scrapes from my throat like ground glass.
"That's... complicated. Rogar wants to brief you personally, but..." Thresh glances toward the other warriors, noting their obvious interest in our conversation. "Perhaps somewhere more private?"
I struggle to move despite protesting muscles, accepting Thresh's offered support with grudging gratitude. The journey to the command post feels endless, each step reminding me of the magical forces that tore through my body. But curiosity and growing dread drive me forward.
The command cave buzzes with activity as warriors study maps, coordinate patrol schedules, and debate tactical options. At the center of it all, Rogar stands beside the stone table where our recovered intelligence spreads like evidence of approaching doom. His massive frame radiates tension, and the tribal tattoos covering his shoulders seem to writhe in the flickering torchlight.
"Zahra." His voice carries relief and something darker—guilt, perhaps, or regret. "You shouldn't be moving yet."
"I needed to know about the security breach." I settle carefully onto a stone seat, wincing as the movement jars my healing ribs. "Thresh said you discovered how they knew about the patrol route."
Rogar's jaw tightens, and I see him exchange glances with Grimna. Whatever they've learned carries weight that isn’t simple tactical complications.
"Show her," Grimna says, his scarred face grim. "She deserves to know the full scope of what we're facing."
Rogar spreads several documents across the table—pages covered in dark elf script, magical formulations I recognize from my years in Liiandor, and what appears to be detailed clan intelligence gathered over months of careful observation.
"We found these hidden in Vex's personal quarters," Rogar says, his voice carefully controlled. "Communication protocols, payment schedules, operational directives. He's been feeding information to dark elf handlers for at least six months."
The revelation was painful. Vex, with his easy smile and family connections, his enthusiastic participation in training sessions, his apparent loyalty to clan traditions. The betrayal feels personal in ways I struggle to process.
"Why?" I whisper.
"Money, initially. His family fell into debt with dark elf moneylenders, and providing intelligence seemed like an easy way to clear the obligation." Rogar's expression hardens. "But the deeper we dug, the more we discovered. He's not just reporting patrol schedules—he's been mapping our defenses, identifying key personnel, even providing personal information about clan members."
Including me. The thought crystallizes with horrible clarity as I study the documents spread before us. My arrival, my training progress, my relationship with Rogar—all of it carefullydocumented and passed to enemies who've been planning my recapture since the moment I escaped their ritual altar.
"Where is he now?"
"Fled. Disappeared during the night after we began asking questions about information security." Grimna's voice carries the flat finality of professional assessment. "Probably already delivered detailed intelligence about our current defensive preparations."
The tactical implications make my head spin. Every plan we've made, every alliance negotiation Rogar has conducted, every strategic advantage we thought we possessed—all of it compromised by systematic betrayal. The dark elves know our capabilities, our limitations, our exact positions and timing.
But worse than tactical exposure is the personal violation. Someone I'd begun to trust, someone who'd shared meals and training sessions and casual conversation, had been cataloguing my vulnerabilities for enemies who wanted me dead or enslaved.
"There's more," Rogar continues, his voice heavy with reluctance. "The documents include specific orders regarding your capture. They want you alive, but they're authorized to use any level of force necessary to secure that objective."
"Why alive?" Though I suspect I already know the answer.
"Public execution. King Kres wants to make an example of the escaped sacrifice who embarrassed him before his court. Your death is meant to demonstrate the futility of defying dark elf authority."
The words confirm my worst fears while adding new layers of horror. Not just death, but death as spectacle, designed to break the spirits of anyone who might consider resistance. My escape has become a symbol that threatens dark elf control, and symbols must be destroyed publicly to maintain the illusion of invincibility.
"The clan doesn't deserve to face this because of me," I say, voicing the guilt that's been gnawing at my chest since consciousness returned. "I should leave, draw the pursuit away from innocent people."
"No." Rogar's voice carries absolute finality. "You're not responsible for their hatred or their need for vengeance. And you're certainly not leaving to face them alone."
"I won't watch good people die for my mistakes."
"They're not dying for your mistakes—they're fighting for principles that matter more than individual safety." He moves around the table to crouch beside my seat, his grey eyes intense with conviction. "You represent something they fear: the possibility that their victims might refuse to stay victims. That's worth defending, even at terrible cost."
The declaration touches something raw and vulnerable in my chest. After years of seeing myself as a burden to be endured or a problem to be solved, hearing someone frame my existence as valuable feels revolutionary.
But revolution carries prices that extend beyond those who choose to participate.
"The alliance negotiations," I say, trying to focus on tactical realities instead of emotional upheaval. "How much does Vex's betrayal compromise those efforts?"
