More skulls leer from the roadside, empty sockets tracking our passage. Some are human. Some are orc. A few are things I can’t identify—too large to be human, wrong shape to be orc. The bones are yellowed with age, moss growing in the cracks.
How many of those were tributes?
The thought makes my stomach turn, bile rising in my throat.
I swallow it down and force myself to study the route instead. Every turn, every landmark. The split oak growing out of a boulder, its trunk divided. The dried streambed cutting across the road at an angle, stones worn smooth. The cliff face that juts up, jagged and sharp against the sky.
When I get the chance to run, I need to know the way back.
“Don’t bother.”
I jerk at the sound of Hadrun’s voice, the movement sending fresh pain through my shoulders. He’s pulled his boar alongside mine, matching pace easily. Watching me.
“Don’t bother what?” I keep my voice flat. Bored.
“Memorizing the road.” His tusks gleam in the dying light. “You’re never going back to that shit village, girl. The sooner you accept that, the easier this’ll be.”
“Fuck you.”
“So creative.” He almost sounds amused, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You know, the clan lord prefers his tributes broken in already. Meek little things who cry and beg and pissthemselves.” He pauses, studying me. “But you...” He tilts his head. “Real fire, not just the kind that burns out quick. He’ll either bed you or feed you to his wolves. Maybe both.”
The soldier behind me chuckles, his chest vibrating against my back. Other voices join in—rough laughter that sets my teeth on edge.
Heat crawls up my neck. But I force a smile—all teeth and no warmth. The kind that saysI’ll gut you given half a chance.
“I’ll sew your mouth shut first chance I get, Captain. Then we’ll see who’s creative.”
The laughter cuts off.
Dies.
Hadrun stares at me for a long moment. His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes—calculation. Reassessment.
Then he spurs his boar ahead without another word, taking the lead of the column again.
Several soldiers mutter as they ride past. I catch fragments over the steady rhythm of hoofbeats:
“—mad bitch?—“
“—break her in a day?—“
“—too much spirit?—“
“—should gag her before she curses us?—“
Good. Let them worry.
The soldier holding me shifts, his grip loosening slightly. Suddenly less sure about keeping me this close. His arm around my waist isn’t as tight anymore—I breathe easier.
Even better.
We ride on as darkness falls properly, the sun finally dropping below the mountains and taking the last of the light with it. The temperature drops fast—autumn nights in the borderlands bite deep, and I’m not dressed for travel. Just my work dress and an undershirt, both too thin.
I start shivering within minutes. The cold seeps into my bones, making my teeth chatter.
Then the howling starts.
Real wolves this time. Not orcs. Their cries echo across the valley from multiple directions, rising and falling in waves that make my skin crawl. The boars snort nervously, their ears flicking. One of the younger soldiers mutters a prayer to whatever gods orcs worship—something guttural that I don’t understand.
