My blood turns icy in my veins. My hands fly to my mouth, muffling a gasp.They're talking about... me?
The first voice laughs. "Aye. Heard he's already moved her into his bed. Lucky bitch. Bet she's sleeping on silks right now, instead of scrubbing them."
They think I'm... with him? Willingly?
The cold, slimy brick at my back is the only thing holding me upright. The world narrows to the sound of those two drunken voices, casually dissecting my life, my death.
"Lucky?" the second voice rasps, his amusement fading. "She's dead. She just hasn't stopped breathing yet. You think he'll let herlive? After what he did to Lamas just to get her?"
My vision tunnels.He... he killed Lamas... for...
"It's a bad time to be on that bastard's list," the first voice agrees, his tone suddenly sober. "First Dareksword, now Lamas. He's cleaning house. Wiping the slate clean."
Dareksword?The name hits me like a physical slap. The raid. The Tusk...myTusk... he returned fromthatraid just this afternoon. I cleaned Dareksword's blood off the marble myself.
He killed Dareksword. Privis killed Lamas.
And I... I am thereason.
Thetaurastew I ate this morning boils in my stomach. I'm not just a servant he coveted. I'm the prize that started a war. I am the excuse for murder. The guilt is suffocating, a physical hand squeezing my throat. I'm going to be sick, right here in the filth.
I feel Othic's hand on my shoulder, his grip impossibly heavy, forcing me to stay still. He's heard it too. He's listening, his whole body tense as a drawn bowstring.
A sharp, crispwhistlecuts through the slum's chaotic din. It’s not a military call; it’s a mercenary's. It echoes from two streets over.
Othic's hand tightens on my shoulder, his grip almost painful. He goes from tense to lethal in a heartbeat.
Another whistle answers, this one from the west. They're coordinating. They're sweeping the Lowtown.
"Mercenaries," Othic's voice is a low, lethal growl in my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "Krell's men. They know these streets."
They're here. Already. He didn't just break his contract; he fought his own crew. He left them broken.The whispers I heard in the servant's hall... it wasn't just a rumor.
He's going to die. He's going to die down here in this filth, protectingme. The woman who is the cause of all this. The guilt and the terror twist together, a cold, sharp blade in my gut.
He's going to die for me.
Othic doesn't hesitate. He shoves me, not back toward the main street, but into a narrow, black gap between two leaning shacks—a space barely wide enough for asuru, let alone an orc. It stinks of garbage and something dead.
"Move," he commands. "Now. Don't stop. And do not make a sound."
7
OTHIC
There is no time for stealth. There is only momentum.
I burst from the narrow gap between the shacks, dragging Aurora with me. Her hand is lost in mine, small and fragile. The main slum street is a river of bodies, a churning mass of palezagferelves, desperate humans, and off-duty Minotaur mercenaries. The stench hits me again—rotting fish, canal sludge, and the sharp, gamey smell of arodanbutcher stall nearby.
They see me. The whole street sees me. "The Tusk."
The crowd doesn't just part; itscatters. Azagferscreams and drops his basket of eels. A human woman yanks her child into a doorway, her face a twisted mask of pure terror. They see the monster of Eelry, covered in fresh blood, axe in hand, dragging a screaming girl who looks like she belongs on Noble Hill.
Good. Fear is a weapon. Fear clears a path.
"He's here! The Tusk!" a voice shrieks.
I ignore it. I roar, a sound of primal warning, and charge, pulling her in my wake. I am a gray-green mountain of rage, and I am carving a path through their filth.
