We reached the main square. The bonfire crackled in the middle, surrounded by orcs of various genders and ages, sitting on logs or on the floor. The atmosphere was surprisingly calm. There were no loud laughs or the rowdiness one would expect from a band of warriors; only low conversations, grunts, and the rhythmic sound of chewing.
Malek was also there.
He sat on a larger log, closer to the fire, his expression solemn as he ate pieces of meat with his fingers. His axe, which he seemed to carry everywhere, rested by his side. Beside him, a tall orc, only a few inches shorter than Malek, but with short hair, talked to him animatedly. Every so often, Malek would grunt something or nod.
The other orcs kept a respectful distance, though their frequent glances in his direction made it clear that they felt his presence heavily.
Kalisha led me to the side of the bonfire, where the cooks were distributing food in wooden bowls. It was nothing sophisticated: a thick, dark-brown stew with chunks of meat and roots floating on the surface. Still, my stomach growled at the scent of fresh herbs and savory meat.
"Here," Kalisha said, handing me a bowl. "Kur."
I accepted it with a nod of thanks and sat beside her on the hard ground. Despite the discomfort, my hunger spoke louder than my pride. Lacking any utensils, I fished out a piece of meat with my fingers and brought it to my lips. Flavors unlike anything I was used to exploded across my palate, so delicious that a moan of pure satisfaction escaped me.
"Mmm, good," I murmured, reaching for another piece.
Kalisha huffed, but when I glanced at her, she didn't look annoyed; she looked proud.
"This is Kremark."
I repeated the word to commit it to memory and went back to eating as if it were my last meal. I hadn't had a proper meal since before my failed wedding; the only reason I didn’t pass out from hunger was sheer stubbornness.
I let out a small, disappointed huff as the bowl finally sat empty. As I watched the other orcs still eating their meals, my stomach emitted a mournful growl. Back at the castle, a single serving would have been more than enough. My new body, however, seemed to demand so much more.
Without warning, a strange pull stirred deep within me, drawing tight and tugging my attention toward a single point, like a summons impossible to ignore. Before I even understood why, I lifted my gaze and locked onto the Ruk’hai’s. My heart skipped a beat beneath the sheer weight of his attention. The orc beside him continued to prattle on, oblivious, but Malek didn’t seem to hear a word. He watched me intently, utterly still, like a predator that had already chosen its prey and was simply calculating the right moment to strike.
The flickering orange light of the fire danced across his face, carving deep shadows into his strong jaw and the straight bridge of his nose, while the small ring in his septum caught the glint of the flames. His broad, bare chest expanded with every breath, stretching the intricate tattoos that swirled across his skin like ancient maps.
As our eyes remained locked, I realized how much Malek truly stood out among the others. Though they shared similar skin tones, hair, and eye colors, there was something in his veryphysiology and the way he commanded the space around him that set him apart. He was taller than any of them, looming like a mountain among mere hills. More than that, there was a strength radiating from him, a silent pressure I could feel on my skin, my body recognizing, long before my mind did, that he was the strongest orc in the clearing.
He tilted his head to the side; that simple gesture pulled a distant, nearly forgotten memory from the depths of my mind.
A small orc, locked away in a dungeon. Dark, somber brown eyes belonging to someone who had long since given up the fight.
It had been years since I last thought of him. I couldn’t remember his name, but I knew it wasn't Malek. It couldn't have been. That small orc died, like so many others, swallowed by time and by my own memory.
Had he been Okshai? Was his family still here, feeling his absence even after all these years?
As the thought took hold—along with the stark reality that I, an enemy, sat among them, eating their food as if I belonged—shame coiled in my chest, heavy and suffocating. These orcs were aiding their enemy without even knowing it. All because Malek had rescued me instead of allowing me to become fodder for a dùthragh.
I’m not sure a High Fae would ever put themselves in danger to save someone without expecting something in return. We have many virtues, but compassion and altruism are definitely not among them.
Malek let out a sharp sound, a click of his tongue that jerked me from my thoughts. Everyone turned to look at him.
"Kalisha," he called out, and my companion stiffened beside me. "Give her more."
As if they had rehearsed the movement, every head turned to me. A sea of eyes in shades of green, brown, and hazel focused on my face, making my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. The Ruk’hai hadn't asked if I was hungry; he had commanded Kalisha to feed me, and in doing so, he had signaled to the entire clan that my well-being was his concern.
Kalisha rose, took my empty bowl, and, under Malek’s watchful eye, filled it once more. She handed it back to me with a practiced motion.
"But… what about the others?" I whispered.
"First, the weak. Then the strong."
The full bowl weighted in my hands like an anvil.
Weak?
