Page 1 of Orc's Little Human
1
SELENE
The sentry tower burns behind me, orange flames licking the night sky like desperate fingers. My bare feet slam against the rocky ground, each step sending shockwaves of pain up my legs. The iron shackles around my ankles clank with every stride—a death knell that'll bring them straight to me if I don't move faster.
Run. Just run.
The desert scrub tears at my legs, drawing fresh blood to mix with the old. My lungs burn, each breath a ragged gasp that tastes of smoke and copper. Behind me, the death camp erupts in chaos—shouting voices, the thunder of boots, the sharp crack of whips cutting air instead of flesh for once.
I stumble over a root and nearly go down, my hands scraping against thorned zabilla as I catch myself. The sticky sap clings to my palms, but I don't stop to let it work on the cuts. Can't stop. Won't stop.
The guard's blood is still under my fingernails.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I weave between the meqixste trees, their gnarled branches casting twisted shadowsin the moonlight. The Lunar Goddess bathes everything in silver, and I curse her for it. Too bright. They'll see me too easily.
A howl cuts through the night—not human, not orc. Worgs. Of course they'd set the worgs loose.
I press myself against a boulder, chest heaving, and listen. Distant shouts grow fainter, but the wet panting of the pack grows closer. My throat constricts. I've seen what worgs do to escapees. What's left barely qualifies as human.
Move.
I push off from the rock and sprint deeper into the scrub, ignoring the way my vision blurs at the edges. When did I last eat? Two days ago? Three? Hard to keep track when survival becomes the only currency that matters.
A branch catches my hair, yanking my head back. I bite down on a scream and tear free, leaving copper strands behind like breadcrumbs. The brand on my collarbone throbs, the ancient mark burning as if it remembers being carved into my flesh with red-hot iron.
Another howl, closer this time.
I scramble up a steep incline, my fingers digging into loose rock and dirt. Pebbles cascade down behind me with each desperate grab for purchase. At the top, I risk a glance back toward the camp. The tower still burns, but smaller fires have broken out across the compound. Good. Let it all burn.
The descent on the other side nearly kills me. I half-slide, half-fall down the rocky slope, my skin tearing on jagged stones. Pain becomes background noise—just another sensation to catalog and ignore. At the bottom, I find myself in a narrow ravine filled with fylvek grass. Perfect.
I grab handfuls of the healing plant and press them against the worst of my cuts. The immediate sting gives way to blessed numbness. Not a cure, but it'll keep me moving.
The worgs' howls echo off the ravine walls now, distorted and multiplied until it sounds like a dozen packs instead of one. I wade through the knee-high grass, heading for the far end where moonlight hints at an opening.
Don't look back. Don't think about what happens if they catch you.
But I do think about it. I think about the other girls who tried to run. About Mira, who made it three miles before they dragged her back. About what they did to her in front of the rest of us as a lesson.
I think about the guard whose throat I opened with a shard of metal I'd been sharpening for weeks. The surprise in his eyes when the blade found its mark. The way he'd grabbed at his neck like he could hold his life in.
He deserved it.
The ravine opens onto a wider plain dotted with more zabilla and the occasional stand of goligan trees. Their needle-like leaves whisper in the desert wind, a sound like hushed warnings. I force myself to walk now instead of run. Need to preserve what strength I have left.
My stomach cramps, reminding me it's been empty for far too long. But there's nothing safe to forage here, and I don't dare risk stopping long enough to properly search. Every second counts.
The howling fades behind me, replaced by the steady whisper of wind through stone. Either I've outrun them, or they've found an easier trail to follow. Neither option offers much comfort.
I trudge across the plain, my shadow stretching long and thin in the moonlight. The shackles have rubbed my ankles raw, leaving bloody rings that match the ones around my wrists. Souvenirs from my time in hell.
Three days. Maybe four. Then what?
No point thinking that far ahead. Right now, survival means putting one foot in front of the other. Means ignoring the way my legs shake with exhaustion. Means pretending I have a plan beyond 'get away.'
The scrub gives way to harder ground scattered with loose rock. Easier walking, but nowhere to hide if they come for me. I stick to the shadows where I can, always moving, always listening.
A sound stops me cold—the rhythmic thud of hoofbeats. Multiple riders, moving fast. My blood turns to ice as I scan the landscape for cover. Nothing but open ground for a hundred yards in every direction.
