3
SAELA
The massive orc's arms lock around me like iron bands, and I thrash against his grip with every ounce of strength I have left. My feet leave the ground as he steadies us both, pulling me away from the bonfire that crackles mere inches from where we almost fell.
I’m about to beg him to let me go, to not kill me, when?—
"The gods have chosen!"
The painted orc's voice booms across the clearing, and suddenly every face in the circle turns toward us with expressions ranging from awe to outright glee. My blood turns to ice water. This is it. This is how I die—not torn apart by Stonevein hunters, but sacrificed to whatever barbaric gods these creatures worship.
The orc holding me doesn't release his grip, but he doesn't tighten it either. His ice-blue eyes meet mine for a brief moment, and instead of the savage hunger I expect, I see something that looks almost like... resignation?
"This is not happening," he mutters under his breath, the words so quiet I barely catch them.
Not happening? What does that mean? I try to twist free again, but his hold remains solid. Not painful—just unbreakable.
"Brother!" Another orc emerges from the crowd, this one older with steel-gray eyes that gleam with satisfaction. The authority in his voice cuts through the chaos like a blade. "Cupid has answered our prayers! The Valentine Rite has worked exactly as the ancient texts promised!"
My captor makes a sound that might charitably be called agreement but sounds more like someone choking on their own frustration.
"Worked perfectly!" A massive orc with a grin that stretches across his entire face pounds his fist against his chest. "Look at her, practically threw herself into his arms! Cupid's aim is true!"
"About time too," calls another voice, this one belonging to a leaner orc with blue-green eyes who's making no effort to hide his amusement. "I was beginning to think Kai would spend the rest of his life married to his own grumpy disposition."
Kai. The orc holding me is named Kai.
The knowledge doesn't make me feel any safer, but at least now I have something to call the creature who apparently has no intention of letting me go. His jaw tenses at the other orc's words, and I feel the muscles in his arms shift slightly.
"This is a mistake," I gasp out, trying again to pull free. "I'm not—I don't belong here. I'm being hunted, I need to get back?—"
The words die in my throat as I realize what I almost said. Get back home. Back to the settlement, back to the handful of humans still hiding in the ruins we've carved into shelter. I can't lead these orcs there, can't give them any hint of where others might be found.
But the painted orc—the one who seems to be some kind of leader—waves my protests away like they're gnats buzzing around his ears.
"Of course you were hunted!" He spreads his arms wide, his voice rich with conviction. "The sacred texts speak clearly of how Cupid's chosen must be tested by trials before reaching their destined mate. You have passed through danger to arrive at this sacred moment!"
"That's not—no, you don't understand?—"
"I understand perfectly." The shaman's eyes blaze with fervent certainty. "You have been sent by Cupid the Warrior to complete the bond with Kai Frostfang. The timing, the manner of your arrival, even your obvious trials—all of it fulfills the prophecy exactly as written."
Prophecy. Sacred texts. My mind reels as I try to process what he's saying. These orcs think I'm some kind of divine gift? That whatever gods they worship actually sent me here?
The absurdity of it would be laughable if not for the very real arms still holding me prisoner.
"Drogath," Kai says, and his voice carries a note of warning that makes several of the watching orcs shift uncomfortably. "Perhaps we should?—"
"The ritual must be completed!" Drogath—the painted shaman—cuts him off with imperial authority. "Cupid has delivered her directly into your arms, but the bond requires proper consecration."
He approaches us with ceremonial solemnity, carrying a clay pot that gleams wetly in the firelight. The red pigment inside looks disturbingly like blood, and I renew my struggles against Kai's grip.
"Hold still," Kai murmurs near my ear, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "Fighting will only make this worse."
"Worse?" I twist my head to stare at him. "How could this possibly be worse?"
"Trust me, it can get much worse."
There's something in his tone—not threat, exactly, but weary experience—that makes me stop thrashing long enough to really look at his face. The firelight throws his features into sharp relief, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the grim set of his mouth. He's not smiling. He's not gloating or radiating the savage pleasure I'd expect from an orc claiming a human prize.
