Was this his game all along?
You were the one who asked to go wash, remember?
Or maybe… I was the one playing the game, diving into madness, because what else was there for me, back at Baron Keldar’s grim, stone-walled keep?
A life of servitude.
Trapped within heavy walls.
Men: knights, servants, nobles… leering at me, thinking they could do what they wanted with me. They only stayed away because I intentionally made myself unattractive. I wore grime like armor and dressed in rags. I left my hair matted and tangled.
I kept my head down. Didn’t make eye contact.
I cultivated a sharp, coarse tongue.
They didn’t realize I listened. And quietly, I learned things. I had ideas, thoughts, opinions…
I never thought I’d be able to show this side of myself, to be so bold.
But then again, I’d never encountered anyone likehimbefore.
MIRA
By the time we returned to the cave, I still couldn’t shake the heat of the stream from my skin. I could still see him: water sliding down his chest, the raw strength in every line of him, the way he hadn’t flinched under my gaze.
I was annoyed with myself for remembering it so vividly.
I wrapped the rough blanket around my shoulders, retreating to the far corner as Gorran crouched by the fire, his broad back to me. He was silent, methodical, checking his weapons, as though nothing had happened by the stream. But I couldn’t stop hearing his voice in my head.
You want to look. Look.
Gods.
What was wrong with me? I couldn’t fall for him. He was an orc—a creature born for battle, a monster out of every nightmare told by candlelight in the keep’s kitchens. And yet here I was, rattled to my core, my heartbeat tripping every time I caught sight of him.
You can’t give in. This is madness. You have to get away.
The thought came like a lightning strike. Sharp. Immediate. If I stayed, I would lose something of myself—something I couldn’t afford to give him.
For all my fascination with him, for all my fanciful thoughts of escaping the dull, grey life of a kitchenhand, I realized they were simply that: fancies. Wishful thinking. He was an orc, a killer, a harsh, ruthless creature, and I was a simple human.
My life in the keep had been harsh, but at least it was mine. It was familiar. Human. I knew the shape of that life, the rules. Here, in the wild, with him, there were no rules I understood. Just his strength. His presence. And that terrifying sense that he might never let me go if I didn’t take my chance now.
He could… do bad things to me.
Get a grip, Mira.
I scanned the cave, my eyes darting over his supplies.
There.A knife, resting on the low shelf near the fire. The one I’d used to cook with. It gleamed faintly, freshly sharpened. Gorran was always sharpening his damn knives. My stomach knotted as I reached for it, slow and quiet. He was focused on his pack, and for a heartbeat, I thought I’d gotten away with it.
I wouldn’t use it to attack him; I’d seen him fight, and that would be asking for certain death.
But I could use it in the woods… to defend myself.
It was still daytime, and it was a clear, sunny day. I could make it back to the keep before night fell—before the direwolves came out again.
I slid the knife into my palm, my fingers trembling, and crept toward the entrance.
