Page 7 of Orc's Little Human
This is madness.
I press my palms against the stone windowsill hard enough to leave impressions in the mortar. The rough texture grounds me, reminds me of what I am—Korrath Draegon, chieftain of the Blackmaw Clan, keeper of the blood-forge magic that flows like molten neptherium through my veins. I don't obsess overcaptives. I don't lose sleep wondering about the thoughts behind enemy eyes.
Yet here I stand, muscles coiled with tension that has nothing to do with the coming sunrise and everything to do with a pair of gray-blue eyes that refused to show proper fear.
Most humans break within hours of arriving at Gor'thul. The sight of our bone palisades, the smell of smoke and old blood that clings to everything, the knowledge that they've entered a place where their kind comes to die—it strips away whatever courage they might have carried. They weep or beg or bargain with gods who've already abandoned them. They curl into themselves like frightened children, all fight bleeding out through their eyes.
Selene did none of those things.
She stood in my longhouse like she belonged there, spine straight despite exhaustion, chin lifted despite knowing exactly what kind of monster held her life in his hands. When I spoke, she listened with the intensity of someone cataloging weaknesses for future exploitation. When I moved, she tracked every shift like a warrior gauging an opponent's reach.
Dangerous.
The word whispers through my thoughts with the certainty of ancestral wisdom. Everything about her screams threat—not in the obvious way of drawn steel or bared fangs, but in the subtle wrongness that makes seasoned fighters reach for weapons before they understand why. She's too calm, too observant, too fucking unbroken for someone who should be shattered by now.
I should have handed her over to Varok immediately. Let him break her in whatever twisted way brings him pleasure, then toss what remains to the others for sport. That's what a proper chieftain would do—maintain order, show strength, prove that even his momentary interest in a captive doesn't supersede clan law.
Instead, I locked her away like some precious thing worth protecting.
The admission sits in my gut like swallowed glass, cutting deeper with every breath. I, who have never shown mercy to enemies, who built my reputation on the bones of those who challenged Blackmaw authority, am keeping a human female safe from my own warriors. The implications of that weakness could destroy everything I've spent fifteen years building.
Yet the thought of Varok's hands on her, of watching that bright defiance dim under calculated cruelty, fills me with rage so pure it threatens to crack my molars. My vision shifts, golden magic flickering behind my eyes as blood responds to emotion. The windowsill groans under my grip, stone actually beginning to yield to the force I'm applying.
What is wrong with me?
I force my hands to release their hold, step back before I accidentally blood-forge the entire wall into something sharp enough to cut. The magic settles reluctantly, leaving behind the familiar ache that comes from power barely leashed. My tusks throb where ritual scars mark coming-of-age trials, old wounds that never quite stopped hurting.
This isn't how desire works for orcs. We take what we want with the directness of apex predators, no complexity or confusion clouding the hunt. If I wanted her body, I'd claim it. If I wanted her submission, I'd break her until nothing else remained. The Vraem Code teaches that strength determines worth, that hesitation breeds death.
But when I close my eyes, I see her standing in torchlight like some fallen goddess refusing to acknowledge her defeat. Copper-gold hair escaped from its braid, framing a face that bears the kind of sharp beauty forged by hardship. Sun-scorched freckles scattered across pale skin that probably once knewsoftness, before whatever hell carved the wariness from her bones.
She looked at me without flinching. Actually looked, like she could see past the scars and ritual markings to whatever human remnant might lurk beneath. For one impossible moment, I felt exposed in ways that had nothing to do with physical vulnerability and everything to do with being truly seen.
Foolishness. She's prey studying a predator, nothing more.
But even as I tell myself this, I know it's a lie. There was recognition in her gaze, acknowledgment of something I don't understand but can't dismiss. Like calling to like across species lines that should be absolute.
The sky lightens by degrees, purple giving way to deep blue that will soon bleed orange and gold. In an hour, maybe two, Gor'thul will wake to another day of survival carved from hostile stone. My warriors will expect orders, direction, the kind of unwavering leadership that's kept us alive when larger clans fell to human expansion or dark elf manipulation.
I should be planning raids, reviewing our food stores, checking the neptherium veins that run through the cliffs beneath our feet. Instead, I'm calculating how long I can keep one human female locked away before someone challenges my authority directly.
Too long already.
Varok's not stupid—ambitious and vicious, but far from stupid. He'll have noticed my interest, will be gathering allies among the warriors who think I've grown soft. The longer I delay, the stronger his position becomes. Eventually, he'll force a confrontation over leadership, and then everything I've built dies in a pool of blood while Gor'thul tears itself apart.
The smart choice, the only choice that preserves the clan, is to give him what he wants. One human life weighed against the survival of my people shouldn't even register as a decision.
So why does the thought of her broken and discarded make my blood sing with violence that has nothing to do with blood-forge magic?
I turn from the window, pacing the length of my sleeping chamber like a caged wolf. The walls close in despite their generous span, decorated with weapons that suddenly feel inadequate for the war brewing in my chest. Ancestor beads click softly in my hair with each step, bone touching bone in rhythms that should be comforting but only remind me of all the dead who earned their place in my braids.
She's just another human. Fragile. Temporary. Meaningless.
But her eyes weren't meaningless. They held depths I recognize from my own reflection, the kind of complicated pain that comes from surviving things that should have killed you. She's been broken before—I can see it in the careful way she holds herself, the unconscious scanning for threats that marks someone who's learned to expect betrayal.
Yet she endures. Whatever hell forged her, it failed to crush the core of steel that keeps her spine straight and her gaze steady. That kind of strength is rare in any species, precious in ways that have nothing to do with desire and everything to do with recognition.
I'm losing my mind.
