Fire explodes across my ribs as a jagged sword finds flesh between my armor plates. The blade parts skin and muscle like parchment, sending hot blood streaming down my side. I grunt, spinning to face my attacker—a lean orc with clan markings I don't recognize.
"Thorran dog," he snarls, raising his weapon for another strike.
My fist connects with his jaw before he can bring the blade down. Tusks snap. He staggers backward, spitting teeth and blood, then comes at me again with desperate fury.
This time I'm ready. My axe bites deep into his shoulder, cleaving through bone and sinew until it lodges against his ribs.He screams, a high keening sound that cuts through the battle din. I wrench the weapon free, and he drops like a felled tree.
The world tilts sideways. Blood loss, maybe, or the blow to my head I didn't notice taking. My warriors scatter in different directions, some pursuing fleeing raiders, others helping wounded comrades. Borgak's voice echoes from somewhere to my left, but the words blur together like water.
My horse is gone—dead or fled, I can't tell. The hillside spins beneath my boots as I stumble away from the carnage, one hand pressed against the gaping wound in my side. Each step sends fresh blood seeping between my fingers.
The mountain pass stretches ahead, empty and silent except for my labored breathing. Behind me, the sounds of battle fade to nothing.
3
THALIA
The tent canvas rustles in the evening wind, cold seeping through every gap in the threadbare fabric. I arrange dried feverfew beside bundles of willow bark, my fingers working automatically through the familiar ritual. The herbs smell like home—if I can call the servant quarters of Vaskyr home. At least here, in this cramped space barely large enough for my bedroll and herb pouch, Rytha's voice doesn't echo off stone walls.
The tent flap tears open with a violence that sends my heart hammering against my ribs.
A massive figure stumbles through the entrance, dark blood streaking down armor that's seen recent battle. My mouth opens to scream—servants who witness what they shouldn't tend to disappear—but his hand clamps over my lips before sound can escape.
"Quiet." His voice rumbles low, rough as grinding stone. "I'm not here to hurt you."
The words should comfort me. They don't. His palm covers half my face, fingers long enough to wrap around my skull if he chose. Heat radiates from his skin like a forge, and beneath the copper tang of blood, he smells of leather and sweat andsomething wild that makes my pulse flutter for reasons I don't understand.
"I need... stitching." Each word comes out measured, controlled despite the pain that tightens the corners of his eyes. "Saw your herbs."
My nod feels jerky against his hand. He releases me slowly, as if testing whether I'll bolt or scream. I do neither. Can't, really, when he fills the small space like a storm contained in flesh and bone.
He's enormous—taller than any orc I've served, with shoulders broad enough to block out the tent's entrance entirely. Dark green skin bears the mottled scars of countless battles, and thick braids frame a face carved from granite. Bone beads click softly when he moves, and his tusks gleam white in the lamplight.
But it's his eyes that steal my breath. Deep brown, almost black, they study me with an intensity that makes me feel exposed despite my modest traveling clothes. Not the casual assessment of a master evaluating property, but something sharper. Hungrier.
"You're afraid." He states it like fact, not accusation.
"I'm always afraid." The honesty slips out before I can stop it.
His head tilts slightly, those dark eyes never leaving mine. Blood seeps steadily through the gash in his side, staining the tent floor, but he doesn't seem to notice.
"Of me?"
"Of everything." Another truth I shouldn't speak. "But especially of orcs who bleed in my tent without permission."
Something flickers across his features—surprise, maybe, or amusement. His mouth quirks at one corner, transforming the harsh planes of his face into something almost human.
My hands shake as I reach for my herb pouch, muscle memory overriding terror. Years of treating kitchen burns andtraining injuries have carved pathways deeper than fear, and my fingers find the familiar textures of dried comfrey and clean linen without thought.
He sways on his feet, that massive frame listing like a ship in rough water.
"Sit." I gesture toward my bedroll, the only soft surface in this cramped space. "Before you fall and crush what little I own."
A huffed laugh escapes him, but he obeys, lowering himself with careful precision. Even seated, he towers over me, those dark eyes tracking my movements as I gather supplies. The blood flow has slowed, but the gash runs deep across his ribs, angry and raw.
"This will sting." I uncork a vial of distilled spirits, the sharp scent cutting through the metallic tang of blood.
"Everything stings." His voice carries a weariness that speaks of more than physical wounds.
