Every orc we pass stares.
Some openly, eyes tracking me with predator focus. Others from the corners of their eyes, quick glances they think I don’t notice.
The whispers start immediately.
“The human.”
“The bride.”
“Iron Warlord’s pet.”
“Curse on the clan.”
One warrior—massive thing with tusks sharpened to points—spits as I pass. The glob of saliva hits the stone inches from my feet.
My hands fist at my sides, but I don’t react. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
Another orc, younger with uncertain eyes, looks away quickly when I meet his gaze.
I memorize every face. Every sneer. Every scowl. Cataloguing allies and enemies.
Though so far, the enemy list is significantly longer.
We turn a corner, and the noise hits me first.
Dozens of conversations bleeding together into a wall of sound. Laughter. The clatter of plates and cups. Voices raised in argument or jest.
Then we reach the doors.
Two warriors stand guard, both gripping spears. They nod to my escort and push the massive doors open.
The Great Hall is enormous.
Long tables stretch the length of the room, packed with orcs feasting on roasted boar and dark ale. Torches burn in wolf-head sconces mounted along the walls, casting everything in amber light that flickers and dances. Banners hang from the rafters—clan symbols I don’t recognize. Fire pits burn at intervals, and the heat from them combines with body heat to make the air thick and stifling.
And at the far end, elevated on a dais, sits the high table.
Vlorn is there. On his black iron throne. Two wolves sleep at his feet—massive beasts with silver-gray fur and teeth the size ofmy fingers. One lifts its head as I enter, amber eyes tracking my movement.
Conversations falter as I enter. Dozens of eyes turn toward me. The only human among predators.
I’m the entertainment tonight.
The guards march me down the center aisle. Every step echoes against the stone. Every eye tracks my progress. I hear the scrape of plates stopping mid-meal. The thud of cups hitting tables. The rustle of warriors turning in their seats to watch.
The smell of food intensifies—roasted meat dripping with fat, fresh bread, root vegetables swimming in butter and herbs. My mouth waters traitorously.
We reach the dais, and the guards stop. One of them nudges me forward.
My feet refuse to move for a heartbeat.
Vlorn doesn’t rise. Doesn’t acknowledge me until I’m standing directly before the dais. Then his golden eyes lift and pin me in place.
He gestures to a smaller chair beside his throne—carved wood, not iron, but still impressive. Elevated above the rest of the hall but clearly subordinate to his seat.
The message is clear: I belong to him. On display.
I climb the dais steps because refusing would cause a scene, but I perch on the edge of the chair, ready to bolt if needed.
