Page 5 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
Slave. The word hits me like a physical blow, and my arms tighten around her involuntarily. Slavery is not unknown among orc clans, though we prefer the honest simplicity of battle to the prolonged cruelty of ownership. But somehow, the thought of this fierce creature reduced to property sets fire to something primitive and violent in my heart.
"You're not a slave here," I growl, the words carrying more heat than I intended.
"No?" She glances back at me with those dark amber eyes. "Then what happens when your clan decides I'm not worth keeping alive?"
The challenge in her voice demands an honest answer, even if the truth complicates everything. Because the truth is that my protection only extends as far as my authority, and there are those among the Stormfang who would see her as nothing more than a mouth to feed and a potential threat to our security.
"Then you'll have to prove them wrong."
"And if I can't?"
I meet her gaze steadily, letting her see the steel beneath my words. "Then you'll die fighting, which is more than most can say."
For a moment, something flickers across her face—gratitude, perhaps, or recognition of the honor inherent in such a death. Then her expression hardens into determination that matches my own.
"I won't need to die fighting," she says with quiet conviction. "Because I'm going to live through whatever tests your people put me through. And when the dark elves come looking for me—and they will come—I'm going to be strong enough to help you destroy them."
The words ring with the force of prophecy, and I find myself believing her despite every rational argument to the contrary. This small human female, bloodied and exhausted and utterly outmatched, speaks of strength and vengeance with the confidence of a seasoned warrior.
Perhaps she's exactly what the Stormfang Clan needs. Or perhaps she's the catalyst that will bring destruction down upon all our heads.
Time will tell which prophecy proves true.
3
ZAHRA
The Stormfang settlement buzzes with activity as Rogar guides Sunder through the maze of stone dwellings and hide tents. Every pair of eyes turns toward us, and the conversations that were flowing like water moments before dry up into tense silence. I feel their scrutiny like a physical weight pressing down on my shoulders, each gaze cataloguing my obvious humanity, my blood-stained sacrificial gown, my complete lack of belonging in this place.
A female orc emerges from one of the larger tents, her green skin bearing intricate tattoos that spiral down her muscular arms. She's shorter than Rogar but no less imposing, with a mohawk of jet-black hair adorned with bone ornaments that click softly as she moves. Her eyes—brilliant amber like molten gold—fix on me with undisguised hostility.
"Chieftain," she calls out in common tongue, though her voice carries the rough edge that seems universal among orcs. "You bring gifts from your morning hunt?"
The word 'gifts' drips with sarcasm sharp enough to cut. Several other clan members gather behind her, their expressions ranging from curious to openly aggressive. I catch glimpses ofweapons being shifted into easier reach, hands moving to rest on axe handles and sword hilts.
"Khela," Rogar acknowledges, his voice carrying a warning that doesn't seem to penetrate the female's obvious irritation. "This is Zahra. She's under my protection."
"Protection." Khela spits the word like poison. "Since when do we offer sanctuary to dark elf pets?"
The insult hits like a slap, but I force myself to remain still against Rogar's chest. Showing anger now would only confirm their worst assumptions about my character. Instead, I meet Khela's burning gaze with as much dignity as I can muster while wearing bloodstained silk and smelling like river water.
"I'm nobody's pet," I say quietly, but my voice carries clearly across the gathered crowd.
Khela's laugh is harsh as grinding stone. "Spoken like a true lapdog who's forgotten her place. Tell me, little human, how many of your kind have you watched die for dark elf amusement? How many have you helped drag to the altar?"
The accusation burns because it contains enough truth to sting. I did nothing to save the other humans in Liiandor, couldn't save them even if I'd tried. Survival demanded that I keep my head down, follow orders, and endure whatever cruelties were visited upon me. But admitting that weakness here would be tantamount to signing my own death warrant.
"I watched," I admit, letting steel creep into my voice. "And I learned. I learned that the only difference between predator and prey is the willingness to fight when the opportunity comes. Last night, I chose to fight."
"And now you expect us to coddle you because you finally grew a spine?" Another orc steps forward—male, with scars crisscrossing his broad chest like a map of past battles. His tusks protrude well past his lower lip, yellowed with age andfiled to razor points. "We are not a charity for broken humans, Chieftain."
Murmurs of agreement ripple through the crowd, and I feel Rogar's muscles tense beneath me. He's outnumbered, and while his authority as chieftain commands respect, that respect clearly has limits when it comes to harboring what they see as a liability.
"Broken?" The word sparks something dangerous in my chest. "You want to see broken? Look at what the dark elves left behind when they finished with me."
I slide down from Sunder's back before Rogar can stop me, landing on unsteady feet but managing to stay upright through sheer stubborn will. The crowd closes in, a semicircle of green skin and bared tusks, but I don't retreat. Instead, I reach for the torn edge of my gown and rip it further, exposing the network of scars that map my torso like a constellation of old pain.
"Whip marks," I say, pointing to the parallel lines that cross my back. "From speaking out of turn. Brand marks." I indicate the cruel symbols burned into my shoulder. "For trying to escape the first time. Knife cuts." My fingers trace the thin white lines along my ribs. "For fighting back when they came for my friend."
