The best version of myself.I'm still figuring out what that means.
The doors to the main house swing open, revealing the interior transformed into something from a fairy tale. Candlelight, flowers, soft music. And at the far end of the room, partially hidden behind sheer curtains that flutter in the evening breeze, I catch my first glimpse of him.
Korgan.
He's bigger than I understood, not just tall, but broad-shouldered in a way that suggests real strength, not just gym muscles. Even from this distance, partially obscured by the staging, there's something about the way he carries himself that's both imposing and oddly graceful.
The cameras are rolling, the other women are moving forward, but I'm frozen for a moment by a jolt of pure curiosity. What does his voice sound like? What makes him laugh? Does he actually like cinnamon rolls, or was that just a ridiculous thing to say in my audition video?
Pay attention,I remind myself.To the details, the timing, the person you're getting to know.
This is it. The beginning of whatever comes next.
I take a deep breath, smooth my dress, and step into the lights.
CHAPTER 2
KORGAN
The alarm sounds at five-thirty. Not the gentle chime these humans prefer, but the harsh clang I requested, but metal on metal, like a war bell. I roll from the bed they've provided, joints protesting the soft mattress. Too much give. An orc needs solid ground beneath him.
The quarters they've assigned me are larger than expected. High ceilings, stone walls that don't feel entirely foreign. Someone did their research, though the decorative touches still screamhuman attempting orc aesthetic. Fake battle axes mounted on walls. A fur rug that's never seen a real hunt. Props for their cameras.
I pull on training gear and examine my weapons. The ceremonial sword they allow me to carry needs attention, not because I plan to use it, but because maintenance is ritual. Discipline. The blade remembers its purpose even when its bearer must play pretend.
Image rehabilitation.That's what the network executives called this assignment when they pitched it to the tribal council. As if my image needs fixing instead of their ignorant viewers needing education.
The whetstone scrapes against steel in familiar rhythm. My hands work automatically while my mind sorts through the morning's obligations. Meeting with human handlers at seven. Costume fitting at eight.Costume.They want me dressed like some court dandy instead of a warrior.
The irony burns. I spent years earning scars that mark real battles, real victories, real losses. Now I'm supposed to hide them under silk and pretend violence never shaped me.
But the tribal council's instructions were clear:Restore our standing. Show them we're more than monsters.
If you fail, someone else will try. Someone who might not remember why we need their respect.
I set down the whetstone and test the blade's edge with my thumb. Sharp enough. Everything here is performance, but some performances carry real stakes.
The skirmish that cost me everything happened three seasons ago. Human settlement, border dispute, the usual territorial nonsense that escalates when pride meets politics. The humans claimed we'd raided their livestock. We claimed they'd poisoned our water source. Both sides sent representatives to negotiate.
I was younger then. Cockier. Believed that strength alone could solve any problem.
The talks went badly. Their negotiator was soft-spoken, reasonable, everything I'd been taught to distrust in human diplomacy. When he mentioned compensation fordamages, I heard theft. When he suggested "mutual oversight," I heard occupation.
So I did what any self-respecting orc would do. I challenged him to single combat.
Honorable solution,I thought.Clean. Direct.
The human delegation took it as a declaration of war.
What followed was three days of skirmishes that left two humans dead, one orc seriously wounded, and me stripped of my war-leader status fordiplomatic failure.The tribal council called it "excessive aggression." The human press called it "orc savagery." Both sides used it to justify hardening their positions.
Korgan Dongoran: the orc who proved orcs can't be trusted.
That's the reputation I'm here to fix. The producers don't know the details, they see me as exotic, dangerous, ratings gold. The tribal council sees me as expendable, useful for image work that could backfire spectacularly.
Win-win, assuming I don't screw it up again.
A knock interrupts my morning routine. Too soft to be anything but human.
