What the hell am I going to do?
The ceremonial shackles around my wrists catch the firelight, the wolf-head runes glowing silver against black iron. Permanent markers of ownership.
I tried pulling at them earlier, in the corridor. They’re locked tight, but they don’t cause pain when I struggle. No magical punishment for resistance—just the physical reality that I can’t remove them without tools I don’t have.
Which means running is theoretically possible. If I can find a way past the guards, past the maze of corridors, past the fortress walls. If I can somehow get tools to remove these shackles.
But first, I need to survive long enough to figure out how.
A knock at the door makes me jump.
“What?” I call out, harsher than intended.
The door opens, and an orc woman enters. She’s older—maybe fifty, maybe older, hard to tell with orcs—with scars crossing half her face and kind eyes that seem out of place in this brutal fortress.
She carries a basket and moves carefully, each step measured.
“Easy now.” Voice low and calm. “Not here to hurt you.”
“I didn’t ask for anything.”
“The clan lord did.” She sets the basket on the table and steps back, giving me space. “Name’s Brakka. I tend the high tower chambers.”
My feet won’t move. “What’s in the basket?”
“See for yourself.”
I stand slowly and approach the table, keeping Brakka in my peripheral vision. She doesn’t seem threatening, but I’m not taking chances.
The basket is full of fabric. I pull out the first piece—a torn banner, black silk with silver thread. The wolf sigil partially ripped away. Bloodstains along one edge.
I pull out another. Same thing. Torn, bloodied, damaged.
There are at least a dozen of them.
“Clan banners,” Brakka says quietly. “From the last skirmish with Oryx’s forces. The clan lord wants them mended.”
I look at her sharply. “He wants me to mend battle flags?”
“To prove your skill.” She shifts her weight, uncomfortable. “He needs to know you’re worth keeping.”
The words land heavy.
Worth keeping.
A tool. A possession. Something to be evaluated and discarded if I don’t measure up.
Rage floods through me, hot and immediate.
I shove the basket back across the table toward Brakka. “Tell your Iron Warlord I don’t stitch for dogs.”
Brakka’s eyes widen. Her scarred face goes pale. “Girl, you can’t—you don’t speak of the clan lord that way. Not if you want to keep breathing.”
“Then I guess I won’t breathe long.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Take the basket and get out.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Then she picks up the basket slowly, carefully, watching me the whole time.
“You got fire in you,” she says quietly. “Fire’s good. Fire keeps you breathin’ in this place.” She pauses at the door. “But fire also gets you burned. Be careful which battles you pick, girl.”
