My jaw dropped. “Fight… with you?”
“Rhark’n,” he corrected, still patient. “Training. You need to become stronger.”
The idea was absurd. He was all muscle, and I could barely hold an axe for more than a few minutes.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I said, trying not to show how nervous I was.
He ignored me and turned to the crowd, announcing the fight in Okshakai, his voice firm and sure. The answer came in excited shouts and stomping feet.
“They’re excited,” he said, pulling me by the arm. “Let’s go.”
Malek dragged me back to the center. The other orc who had been on the ground moments before was already up, moving with surprising ease as he approached with a crooked smile.
He was the same one I’d seen days earlier, speaking with the Ruk’hai during a meal.
I watched him closely, noting both the similarities and the differences between him and Malek. His hair was shorter—shaved at the sides, braided on top. His eyes were a lighter green, and his skin held a richer green tone than Malek’s.
My cheeks warmed when I noticed the rings in his nipples, worn without the slightest hint of modesty.
“So this is your apprentice?” he asked, amused, looking at me like I was something to study.
Malek’s smile faded. His expression hardened, and he crossed his arms, becoming the same solemn orc I grew used to.
“She is,” he said shortly. “And you’re going to help her.”
My eyes widened before I could stop it, a flicker of disappointment following.
“I thought you were going to train me,” I said, keeping my voice even despite the frustration underneath.
“And I will,” he shot back immediately. “But there are things Drak is better at.”
At that, the orc’s smile widened. He began to circle me, watching my every move. I took a breath and straightened, refusing to look weak. At last, he stopped in front of me and, not asking, took my hand and brought it to his forehead, murmuring something in Okshakai.
Before I could react, Malek yanked him back by the neck, breaking the contact, and hissed, baring his fangs. Drak raised his hands in surrender.
"And what does he do better than you?" I asked, interrupting the glaring contest between them.
"Archery," Malek replied. “He’s the best Oksha has."
Drak straightened up, puffing out his chest. "It’ll be a pleasure and an honor, akra’yn."
Malek growled, but Drak only laughed, unfazed. It didn’t feel hostile—more like an old rivalry between brothers.
After we set a new session for the next day, Drak walked away. Malek led me to a quieter part of the meadow, away from the others.
“What will we do today?” I asked, unable to hide the anticipation in my voice.
He walked to a chest filled with worn leather armor and picked out a set my size.
“Mker,” he said, tossing it to me.
I caught it by reflex, the weight nearly throwing me off balance. “What?”
“Put it on. We’re going to fight.”
My heart began to race. The memory of the dùthragh hit me hard, dragging back the same helplessness—the bitter certainty that I had been nothing more than a target. Without Malek, I wouldn’t have survived. I’d believed I was strong enough to face this world alone. I had been wrong.
I took a deep breath and straightened. The shame was still there, but something stronger was rising beneath it.
