“I will,” I murmur, the tightness returning to my stomach with so much intensity I’m scared I might fall to my knees. “And… I’ll remember to be dignified.”
“Good girl, I think you’ll do fine,” she says, smiling warmly.
I take a deep breath, exhale slowly, and start down the path toward the fortress. Two massive steel doors wait at the end. I’m still trying to figure out how I could possibly open one when they creak apart on their own, moved by some hidden mechanism that seems far too advanced for a place this old.
I take one last look at the outside world, scared I may never see it again. Lady Frax’mo is already on her ship and it’s hovering, like they’re waiting to confirm I’m inside before they depart.
This is the moment I’ve been dreading my entire life, and it’s worse than I imagined. Like most second-borns, I spent a lot of time thinking about every option. I rankedorcsecond on my list, below wolf shifters. Unlike Rose, I foolishly ranked a wealthy man over demon possession, but I’d definitely change the order now.
But the order doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ve been sold to an orc who has gifted me to a king. The very same kingresponsible for The Salting. The one whodemandedreparations for the atrocities humans committed. It seems like I’m the worst possible option for a companion in his final days.
Despite all my hesitations, I step through the doors, feeling like I’m walking into my tomb. They close behind me as my eyes adjust to the light.
There’s a long hallway directly ahead of me and a door on my right and left. I’m not sure which direction I should go. The floor is grey stone, as are the walls. The hallway is illuminated by artificial torches that look out of place. Between them are large paintings.
“Hello?” I call out, unsure which direction I should go.
There’s no answer except my echo. I walk to the door on the right, and it’s locked, so I try the one on the left.
“Okay, both doors are locked,” I mumble under my breath.
Straight ahead is my only option. I glance at the paintings as I walk past them, but I don’t linger long enough to take in all the details. They appear to be paintings of battles, based on what I can see. I can’t read orcish, so none of the plaques underneath them are decipherable for me.
I try every door I pass, and they’re all locked. At the end of the hallway, another set of large metal doors blocks my path. Once again, they creak open as I approach, clearly letting me know I’m either going the right direction, or blindly walking into some weird, elaborate, orc trap.
But I’m already trapped. I’ve been trapped since the day I was born, and things I didn’t even know I should fear are making mylegs tremble. I summon whatever functions ascourageat this point and continue on, walking through the doors.
As soon as I walk through them, my jaw drops slightly. It’s a throne room. A throne room with akingsitting on the throne.
The room is massive, big enough to hold everyone in Troona with space left over. The ceiling soars at least four stories high, supported by round pillars carved from dark stone. Each pillar is etched with intricate battle scenes. Warrior orcs locked in combat, their weapons raised, their faces twisted in triumph or agony.
But what catches my attention is the hugebrutestaring at me: King Lix’tuk. If the throne he’s sitting on isn’t a dead giveaway, the worn, ruby-encrusted crown that sits low on his brow certainly is.
I didn’t have long to create an image of him in my head, but he’s not what I expected. I thought he’d be old. Frail, even. Bent with age and weakened from wars that ended long before I was born. Lady Frax’mo said these were his final days, so I pictured someone ancient and withered. Maybe even sickly.
But the orc sitting on the throne is none of those things.
He’smassive. Even sitting, I can tell he’s easily over seven feet tall, maybe closer to eight. His shoulders are so broad they seem to fill the throne, and his arms are thick with muscle. He’s built like a beast born for battle, all hard edges and raw power, with not an ounce of softness anywhere on him.
His skin is deep forest green, darker than Lady Frax’mo’s, with an almost grayish undertone. Or maybe that’s because of the scars. Most of the skin not covered by armor is marked by gashes and deep battle wounds probably older than I am.
He has a strong, brutal jawline, square and unforgiving, with prominent cheekbones that cast shadows across his face in the flickering light of the artificial torches along the walls. His nose looks like it’s been broken so many times it’s permanently jagged like an extra scar on his face. His brow is thick beneath his crown, shadowing black eyes deeper than onyx. Two thick tusks curve up from his lower jaw, yellowed with age, but still sharp at the tips.
The only real sign of his age that I can see is a few strands of grey in his long, flowing black mane.
“You must be the gift,” he rumbles dryly. “I should have known Lord Frax’mo and his wife wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“My name is Clover, Your Majesty,” I whisper, feeling both trapped and overwhelmed by his imposing glare.
“You’re the first human ever to set foot in one of my throne rooms,” he says, tilting his head slightly, like he’s studying me. “You might as well come closer, so I can see you, little human girl.”
I take one nervous step forward, then two, and keep forcing my feet to move until I’m in the middle of the room. I don’t have enough courage to get closer. I don’t know what to say, and this feels like a good time to keep my mouth shut.
So, I stand where I am. Waiting to be judged. Waiting to be told what to do.
I’m his gift.
But I have no idea what he’ll do with me.
