Surprise cut through the pain as I forced my eyes open, gasping for breath. A shadow loomed above me—an orc. A female with sharp, angular features and skin the color of a deep, weathered olive. Her white hair was tightly braided, and her yellowed eyes bored into me as if I were nothing more than an annoying gnat. Deep-set wrinkles carved her face, each one a testament to a long life. She held a polished wooden bowl in her hands, the thick, dark liquid inside catching the dim light as she studied me in silence.
Noting that I was awake, she grunted another foreign word, “Krazak mo.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but a flood of memories overwhelmed me—the wedding, the curse, my desperate flight, and that damned dùthragh. It had attacked me, nearly tearing out my throat before the orc warrior intervened. I must have blacked out from pain or blood loss, and judging by the wood-and-stone hut and the old crone tending me, he had brought me to his village.
Unfortunately for me, she spoke in the Okshakai dialect. I recognized only a handful of words from my childhood lessons—learning the tongue was part of a Ceilte soldier’s training, but never considered necessary for the Lord’s daughter. I remembered the guttural insults Leone had taught me for amusement, but I doubted the old healer would take kindly to being called adranak ororor hearingkur mo ekrer.
She stirred the thick liquid with her long, gnarled fingers, then brought them to her lips, licking them clean. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, fighting back a wave of nausea.
“Guk,” she muttered, nodding to herself—that word I recognized: Good.
I watched her lift a large, coarse brush and stir the mixture once more. This time, she didn’t taste it. Instead, she brought the brush toward my mangled back. It took a fraction of a second to understand her intent, and by then, it was too late. A shameful yelp escaped my lips as the liquid touched the raw wounds, stinging like hot nettles.
I thrashed, desperate to escape the torment, but the restraints held me fast. The old orc was relentless, spreading the substance across my skin with no pause.
“Krun!” I screamed, remembering the negative word as tears blurred my vision. No matter how loudly I shouted, she kept going. When the bristles scraped against my raw flesh, pain surged through me, and I lost all control. “Kur mo ekrer, krikar!”[1]
The old orc’s eyes widened, and for a heartbeat, her stern mask cracked into pure shock. She froze, brush suspended in midair. I exhaled, relief washing over me—until a raspy,booming laugh erupted from her throat, echoing through the small hut.
She was laughing at me.
She shook her head, still chuckling, and resumed smearing the venom across my back. The searing pain flared anew, and all I could do was unleash every insult I knew, from “eat my shit” to branding her an “aberration rejected by her parents.” The old orc appeared perversely entertained by my outrage, letting out a raspy cackle whenever an insult was creative.
I glared at her with pure, unadulterated hatred, but she remained unfazed. After what felt like an eternity, she finally ceased her work. My back still throbbed, yet the searing burn gradually softened, replaced by a gentle, almost soothing warmth. The healer moved to a corner of the hut, settling onto a pile of furs, her gaze fixed on me, silently waiting for my next move.
I drew a deep, shaky breath. “Why am I tied up?” I tried to make my voice strong, but it came out weak and thin.
The orc blinked. “You speak the Common tongue.” Her voice was like stone scraping against stone, thick with a heavy accent.
“Untie me, Grakan.” I sharpened my tone, forcing steel into my words, but the old orc merely took out a pipe as ancient as she was and lit it with a flint. She ignored me entirely, drawing in the acrid smoke until it filled her lungs. The scent was cloying and sweet, making my nose twitch.
“Hey! I’m talking to you!” I shouted, but my words fell on deaf ears.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. My limbs began to grow numb from the awkward position, but it was the uncertainty that truly ate at me.
Had they noticed I wasn't a real orc? Perhaps something in my behavior had signaled that I was a dùthragh in lamb’s skin. If so, they would surely make an example of me. They might send my head to my father as a warning, or use me as a bargaining chip.
Neither outcome was acceptable. My stomach twisted at the thought. I couldn’t allow my kingdom to be held hostage by these savages. If they used me against Ceilte, all my father’s painstaking efforts to keep the peace would be for nothing. The realm was already fragile; a captive princess—or a dead one—would only make things worse.
I strained against the bindings, testing the strength of this new body, but the ropes held fast. My heart pounded violently against my ribs.
“It is no use, ashkre. You will not leave until the Ruk’hai gives his permission.”
I froze at the strange word. “What is a Ruk’hai? And why do I need permission? I’ve committed no crime!” Except for being their mortal enemy, but they didn’t need to know that. “I demand you release me!”
The old orc snorted and rolled her eyes, treating me like a petulant child. Who did she think she was?
Before I could curse her again, heavy footsteps echoed nearby and the door, just out of my line of sight, creaked open and shut. Then a deep voice speaking Common reached my ears.
“How is she?”
The healer replied in Okshakai, and the two fell into conversation in their own tongue, ignoring me completely. The cadence was harsh, punctuated with dry glottal stops and abrupt bursts of sound. The newcomer spoke differently. His deep voice had a surprising smoothness, a clear contrast to the crone’s rasp.
Finally, the old female huffed in impatience, snapped something, and stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to shake the hut. The sudden silence made my heart skip a beat.
I was alone with a stranger in enemy territory, unsure of what fate awaited me. The floorboards groaned under his weight as he stepped closer, finally stopping beside me.
The first thing I noticed was his scent—damp earth with a hint of an unfamiliar herb. It was oddly grounding, bringing back memories of rainy days in Ceilte, when the forest felt most alive.
