Page 6 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
The crowd has gone silent, their expressions shifting from hostility to something harder to read. I continue my catalog of damage, each scar a testament to years of endurance that should have broken anyone with sense.
"Burns from magical punishment. Bite marks from their pets. A cracked skull from the time I dared look a noble in the eye." I meet Khela's gaze directly. "This is what broken looks like when it refuses to stay broken. This is what survival costs when you're property instead of a person."
For a long moment, nobody speaks. The only sounds are the whisper of wind through the canyon and the distant calls of children playing somewhere deeper in the settlement. ThenKhela steps closer, her amber eyes studying my scars with newfound interest.
"You killed any of them?" she asks bluntly.
"Two." The admission slips out before I can consider the wisdom of confessing to murder. "A guard who cornered my friend in the kitchens. And a noble's son who thought human flesh was his birthright."
Khela's scarred lips curve into something that might charitably be called a smile. "How?"
"Kitchen knife through the guard's throat. Poison in the noble's wine—took three days for him to die."
"And they didn't execute you?"
"They needed me alive for the ritual. The Serpent prefers his sacrifices unmarked by obvious violence." I gesture to the shallow cut along my ribs. "Though they made sure I understood the consequences of further rebellion."
The female orc nods slowly, as if I've passed some test I wasn't aware of taking. "You have spine, little human. Stupid spine, but spine nonetheless."
"Khela," Rogar's voice carries warning as he dismounts from Sunder. "Zahra needs food, water, and medical attention. The philosophical debates can wait."
"Can they?" The scarred male speaks up again. "Grimna tells me you plan to keep her. That true, Chieftain?"
All eyes turn to Rogar, and I feel the weight of decision hanging in the space like smoke from a forge. He could deny it, claim he's merely offering temporary shelter until I'm strong enough to leave on my own. The lie would smooth over clan tensions and give him an easy way to dispose of me later.
Instead, he places one massive hand on my shoulder, the gesture both protective and possessive. "Zahra stays. Anyone who has a problem with that decision can take it up with me directly."
The challenge in his words is unmistakable. Several clan members shift uncomfortably, but none seem willing to openly defy their chieftain. For now.
"Where?" Khela asks, practical as always. "She can't sleep in your tent—the clan would never accept a human sharing the chieftain's bed. And she's too weak to build her own shelter."
Heat rushes to my cheeks at the implication, but I force myself to focus on the practical problem she's raised. Rogar's protection only means something if the clan accepts it, and harboring me in his personal space would undermine his authority while making me an even bigger target for resentment.
"She'll stay with the unmated warriors until she can establish her own household," Rogar decides. "Thresh can show her where to find food and water. Khela, I want you to evaluate her fitness for training."
"Training?" I can't hide my surprise. "What kind of training?"
Khela's smile turns predatory. "The kind that keeps you alive when pretty words and sharp tongue aren't enough. If you're staying with the Stormfang, you learn to fight like Stormfang. No exceptions."
The prospect should terrify me. I've never held a real weapon, never trained for combat beyond the basic self-defense that comes from living in constant danger. But instead of fear, I feel something that might be excitement uncurling in my chest. The chance to become strong, to learn skills that could protect not just myself but others who need defending.
"When do we start?" I ask.
"Now." Khela jerks her head toward a flat area near the settlement's edge where wooden practice weapons wait in neat rows. "Unless you need to rest first? I know humans are delicate."
The taunt is obvious, but I rise to it anyway. "Lead the way."
"Zahra." Rogar's voice stops me before I can follow Khela. "You're injured and exhausted. There's no shame in waiting until tomorrow."
Part of me wants to accept his offer, to collapse into whatever shelter they'll provide and sleep for a week. But I can feel the clan watching, weighing my every response. Show weakness now, and I'll never be anything more than a burden they tolerate for their chieftain's sake.
"I'm fine," I lie, straightening my spine despite the ache in my ribs. "A few bruises never killed anyone."
Khela's approving grunt suggests I've given the right answer. She turns and strides toward the training ground, her bone ornaments clicking a rhythm that sounds suspiciously like funeral drums. I follow, hyperaware of the crowd dispersing behind us, their conversations resuming in low murmurs that undoubtedly center on my presence.
The training area is larger than it appeared from a distance, a natural amphitheater carved into the canyon wall by wind and time. Sand has been spread across the stone floor, dark with old bloodstains that speak of serious combat rather than gentle sparring. Wooden weapons line the perimeter—swords, axes, maces, and implements I can't identify.
"Pick one," Khela commands, gesturing to the array.
