Page 3 of Orc's Little Human
He circles me slowly, taking in every detail. The torn remnants of my prison clothes. The healing cuts on my arms and legs. The way I hold myself despite the exhaustion and fear. When he stops in front of me, close enough that I can see my reflection in his pupils, I force myself to meet his gaze.
"Damaged goods," he says finally, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent crowd. "But serviceable."
He reaches toward me, and every instinct screams to run. But there's nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. His fingers are inches from my throat when another voice cuts through the air like a blade.
"I get first look at the spoils."
The effect is immediate. Varok's hand freezes mid-reach, and his expression shifts from predatory satisfaction to barely concealed rage. The crowd turns as one toward the source of the voice, and I see several orcs actually step back.
Varok's jaw clenches, the muscles in his neck standing out like cables. For a moment, I think he might refuse—might challenge whoever dared interrupt him. Then he takes a deliberate step backward, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
"Of course," he says, the words ground out between clenched teeth.
My heart hammers against my ribs as footsteps approach from behind me. Heavy, measured, carrying the weight of absolute authority. The crowd parts further, creating a clear path, and the fear in the air becomes thick enough to taste.
I don't turn around. Can't turn around. Because somehow, I know that whatever's coming will be worse than Varok. Worse than anything I've faced so far.
The footsteps stop directly behind me, close enough that I can feel body heat radiating against my back. Feel the subtle shift in the air that comes with something large and dangerous occupying the same space.
This is it. This is where I die.
2
KORRATH
The human female stands rigid in the center of my warriors, chin lifted despite the terror I can smell rolling off her in waves. Blood streaks her pale skin, dirt cakes her copper hair, and those gray-blue eyes burn with a defiance that should have died in whatever hell she crawled out of.
She should be cowering. Should be begging.
Instead, she meets Varok's predatory stare like she's the one holding the blade.
Something twists in my chest—recognition, maybe. Or respect for prey that refuses to break even when the wolves circle. Either way, it makes me act before thought can catch up.
"I get first look at the spoils."
The words leave my mouth before I fully understand why I'm speaking them. My voice cuts through the crowd's murmur like an axe through bone, instant and absolute. Every orc in the circle snaps to attention, their casual bloodlust replaced by wary alertness.
Varok's hand freezes inches from the girl's throat, his fingers curling into claws. The muscle in his jaw jumps as he fights against every instinct telling him to finish what he started. Buteven Varok isn't stupid enough to challenge me directly—not here, not in front of the entire clan.
"Of course," he grinds out, stepping back with visible reluctance.
I move through the crowd, and they part before me like water around a stone. Eight years of leadership, eight years of spilled blood and hard choices, have taught them when to yield without question. The girl doesn't turn to face me, but I see her shoulders tense as my footsteps echo off the rocky ground.
Smart. She knows a predator when she hears one.
I stop directly behind her, close enough to count the vertebrae visible through her torn shirt. She's smaller than I expected—the top of her head would barely reach my chest—but there's steel in her spine that has nothing to do with size. Her breathing stays controlled despite what has to be bone-deep exhaustion.
What the fuck am I doing?
The question hammers through my skull as I study the fragile curve of her neck, the way her hands shake despite her efforts to hide it. She's human. Weak. A mouth to feed when we can barely sustain ourselves. Everything about this goes against the Vraem Code that's guided every decision I've made since my parents' blood stained the stones of this very circle.
But those eyes...
"She's mine."
The declaration rolls across the gathering like thunder, final and unforgiving. Murmurs ripple through the crowd—surprise, confusion, barely concealed disapproval. I catch fragments of whispered conversations:
"...gone soft..."
