Page 7 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
I study the options, trying to guess which might suit my size and strength. The axes are clearly too heavy, and the longer swords would be unwieldy in my hands. Finally, I settle on a curved blade about the length of my forearm, its wooden surface polished smooth by countless training sessions.
"Interesting choice." Khela selects a practice axe that looks barely smaller than the real weapons the clan warriors carry. "Most humans go for the straight sword. Familiar, predictable. But you chose a saber—aggressive, requires commitment to the attack."
"I'm told I have commitment issues," I say, testing the weapon's balance.
"We'll see." Khela moves to the center of the arena, her stance shifting into something predatory and fluid. "First lesson: pain is your teacher, and she's not gentle with stupid students. Second lesson: the ground is your enemy as much as your opponent. Third lesson: there are no rules in real combat, so don't expect any here."
She doesn't give me time to respond before she's moving, the practice axe cutting through the air toward my head with frightening speed. I throw myself sideways, feeling the wind of her passage ruffle my hair, and try to bring my own weapon up in a clumsy counterattack.
Khela bats my blade aside effortlessly and follows up with a sweep of her axe handle that catches me across the ribs. The impact drives the air from my lungs and sends me sprawling in the sand, my practice sword spinning away across the arena floor.
"Dead," she announces cheerfully. "What did you learn?"
I spit sand from my mouth and glare up at her. "That you're faster than you look."
"Wrong. You learned that hesitation kills. You saw my attack coming and wasted precious time deciding how to respond. In real combat, that delay would have left your head rolling in the dirt."
She offers me a hand up, and I accept it despite the humiliation burning in my chest. "Again," I say, retrieving my weapon.
"Again," she agrees.
The pattern repeats itself a dozen times—Khela attacks, I attempt to defend, and I end up flat on my back in the sand. Each impact teaches me something new about my own limitations, about the vast gulf between intellectual understanding ofcombat and the physical reality of violence. My ribs ache, my head pounds, and I'm fairly certain I'll be purple with bruises by tomorrow.
But I keep getting up.
"Enough." Khela finally calls a halt after I've been knocked down for what feels like the hundredth time. "You're starting to telegraph your moves, which means you're too tired to learn effectively."
I struggle to my feet, swaying slightly as exhaustion finally catches up with me. The sun has moved significantly since we began, and I realize we've been training for hours. My stomach clenches with hunger, and the wound in my side has reopened, seeping blood through the torn silk of my gown.
"How did I do?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to hear the answer.
Khela studies me with those piercing amber eyes, taking in my bedraggled appearance and obvious pain. "You have the instincts of a fighter," she says finally. "Raw and untrained, but present. More importantly, you have the will to continue when most would have quit."
"Is that enough?"
"To survive? Maybe. To thrive among the Stormfang?" She shrugs. "That remains to be seen. But you've earned the right to try, which is more than I expected when this day began."
The admission feels like a victory, however small. I've proven I'm not entirely helpless, that I'm willing to endure pain and humiliation in pursuit of strength. It's a beginning, at least.
"Come," Khela says, slinging her practice axe over her shoulder. "You need food and rest. Tomorrow we'll see if you can hold a weapon properly before I knock you down."
As we walk back toward the settlement, I catch sight of Rogar watching from the shadow of a stone overhang. Our eyes meet across the distance, and something passes betweenus—approval, perhaps, or recognition. He nods once before disappearing into the maze of dwellings, leaving me to wonder what exactly I've gotten myself into.
One thing is certain: survival among the Stormfang Clan will require more than just enduring their training. I'll need to prove my worth not just as a fighter, but as someone they can trust, someone who adds value to their community rather than merely consuming resources.
The question is whether I'm strong enough to become the person they need me to be, or if the scars of my past will prove too heavy to overcome.
Time will tell. But for the first time since my escape from Liiandor, I have hope that the answer might be yes.
4
ROGAR
Fourteen days of blazing sunrises passed in a blink. The evening air carries the scent of roasted meat and wood smoke as I make my way through the settlement, but my attention remains fixed on the small figure hunched over a bowl near the communal fire pit. Zahra sits apart from the other unmated warriors, close enough to benefit from the warmth but distant enough to avoid conversation. Smart. My clan members aren't cruel by nature, but they're not quick to embrace outsiders either.
Especially human outsiders.
I settle onto a stone outcropping that gives me a clear view of the gathering without making my observation obvious. From here, I can watch how she navigates the delicate social dynamics that will determine whether she thrives or merely survives among the Stormfang.
