"I am Forla of the Iron Tusk Clan, and my mate will tear your heart out!"
My mate. The words hit deeper than any weapon ever has. She claims me even in captivity, even facing whatever monster holds her prisoner. Uses my name, my clan, my love as armor against the dark.
I found you, my fierce heart. And whoever has you is about to learn why orcs don't make empty threats about tearing out hearts.
Time to keep that promise.
31
FORLA
The liquid feels like ice water and molten metal all at once, spreading across my skin in careful, deliberate strokes. Vitti hums his children's lullaby as he works, painting my left arm with what looks like liquid moonlight that hardens into something smooth and cold.
Porcelain. He's turning my skin to porcelain.
"There we are," he croons, stepping back to admire his work. "Such a beautiful transformation. The skin takes the treatment so well—see how it gleams? Like the finest dolls from the deep cities."
I try to scream, but my throat constricts as the substance spreads from my arm toward my chest. Where it touches, sensation dies. Not numbness—complete absence, as if that part of my body has simply stopped existing.
"Don't struggle, little dolly," Vitti chides, dipping his brush back into the bowl of liquid porcelain. "Struggling creates flaws, and we can't have flaws in my masterpiece."
He begins painting my other arm with methodical precision, humming that horrible lullaby. The stuff hardens as it dries, creating a shell that looks beautiful and feels like a tomb. I cansee my reflection in the glossy surface—pale, perfect, no longer quite human.
"Your mate will be so pleased," he continues conversationally. "When he arrives, he'll see how lovely you've become. Then I can give him the same treatment. A matched set of perfect warrior dolls."
The porcelain reaches my shoulder now, creeping toward my neck with inexorable progress. Each brushstroke steals more of me away, turning flesh into decoration. I try to move my transformed arm and can't—it's become a beautiful, useless thing, more sculpture than limb.
"The process is irreversible, you know," Vitti explains, selecting a finer brush for detail work around my collar bone. "Once the porcelain sets completely, you'll be exactly what you were meant to be. No more struggling, no more defiance. Just perfect, eternal beauty."
Terror gives way to something colder, deeper. This isn't death—death would be mercy. This is being transformed into an object, a thing for his collection. Aware but unable to act, trapped forever in a body that no longer responds to my will.
The porcelain reaches my throat. When it hardens completely, I won't be able to speak. Won't be able to scream. Won't be able to do anything but stare with glassy eyes while he arranges me in whatever pose pleases his madness.
"Almost finished with the base coat," he murmurs, painting across my chest with artistic concentration. "Then we'll add the details—rosy cheeks, ruby lips. You'll be the centerpiece of my collection."
My voice is already weakening, the porcelain constricting my throat like a collar. "Th-Thoktar will... will kill you..."
"Shh, dolly. Dolls don't speak." He pauses in his work to stroke my cheek with fingers that leave cold numbness behind. "Though I confess, I'm looking forward to his arrival. The rage,the despair when he sees what you've become—it will make breaking him so much sweeter."
Sound echoes from somewhere above—stones falling, wood splintering. Vitti's head tilts in that unnatural way, black eyes bright with excitement.
"Oh! The warrior doll arrives! Perfect timing."
More sounds—heavy footsteps, the ring of steel on stone. Someone forcing their way through the hidden entrance with barely contained violence. Vitti claps his hands together like a delighted child.
"This is wonderful! He can watch me finish your transformation before I begin his. The emotional trauma will make him so much more... pliable."
The footsteps reach the chamber entrance. Vitti turns toward the sound with eager anticipation, brush still dripping porcelain in his hand.
"Welcome, warrior! Come see what your mate has become?—"
Thoktar explodes into the chamber like a force of nature.
I've seen him fight before—in the arena, against Dark Elves, in desperate battles for survival. But this isn't fighting. This is something primal and absolute, rage given form and purpose. His eyes find me first—take in the porcelain coating, the restraints, the bowl of liquid transformation—and something breaks behind his gaze.
Not breaks.Unleashes.
Vitti doesn't even have time to scream. Thoktar's first blow crushes the Dark Elf's throat, cutting off whatever mad commentary he was about to offer. The second shatters ribs. The third drives bone fragments into vital organs.
