Her Rugged Orcs

4. Dren

4

DREN

T he roar of the crowd pounds against my skull as I stand in the blood-soaked sand. My hands are clean while Grash and Murok wear the evidence of our victory. The champion's body lies still at Grash's feet. My own kill – swift, precise, merciful – rests in the shadows where he fell. The metallic scent of blood mingles with sweat and sand, carried on the cool breeze that whips through the stadium.

"We have new champions!" Dex booms across the arena. "The new kings of the pits!"

My silver gaze sweeps the crowd, marking each exit, each guard position. The dark elf nobles lean forward in their gilded boxes. Their pale faces are hungry for more violence. Behind us, the human woman's breathing comes quick and shallow. She stays close to Grash's shadow, smart enough to know where safety lies.

"That was quite the show," Murok mutters as we begin our victory march from the arena. His braids are slick with sweat, but his movements remain fluid and controlled.

"Needed to be done," Grash rumbles back.

The guards trail behind us, their boots crunching in the sand. They keep their distance, playing to the spectacle of three unbound orc champions.

Grash's cloak sweeps the ground as he walks, hiding the tension in his shoulders. He's watching Eira without turning his head, tracking her movements like a precious cargo that might slip away.

The crowd's cheering follows us down the tunnel, echoing off the stone walls. The air grows cooler, damper, heavy with the smell of torch smoke and iron bars.

The torchlight catches on Eira's pale hair, making it gleam like stolen gold. She moves like a shadow herself, adapting to our pace, staying just close enough to be protected but not so close as to seem desperate. I respect that.

"That was almost too easy," Murok says as he walks.

Grash grunts. "Don't jinx it."

The tunnel curves, leading to the champion cells. Different from the regular pens, but a cage all the same.

The shadows shift ahead – a warning I catch too late. Guards pour from the tunnel's mouth. Their armor gleams dully in the torchlight as they surge forward, weapons drawn.

Behind us, more movement. The dark elf guards who'd been trailing us spring into action.

"Predictable," Murok spits as rough hands grab his braids.

A guard's fingers dig into my bicep. Amateur. I could break his grip in three different ways, but I hold still. Watching. Waiting. Calculating.

Eira's sharp intake of breath draws my attention. A dark elf guard has her by the throat. The sound of flesh meeting flesh soon echoes off the walls as he backhands her. Her head snaps to the side. Her hands tremble – a slight movement most would miss – before she stills them.

Pride and fury surge through my chest. Even now, she refuses to show weakness.

Grash lunges forward. "Touch her again and I'll?—"

"You'll what?" The guard sneers, tightening his grip on Eira's throat. A growl builds in Grash's chest, his muscles bunching under his cloak. His eyes burn with promised violence.

I catch the subtle shift in Grash's weight, the way his fingers flex. He's about to do something stupid. Something that will get us all killed.

"Grash." My voice is quiet but carries weight. A warning. Not yet.

The guard holding me chuckles, clearly thinking he's in control. His grip loosens slightly – a fatal mistake if this were any other moment. But timing is everything, and this isn't our moment. Not with Eira's throat in enemy hands.

"The champions need to learn their place," the guard holding Eira says, his fingers digging into her pale throat.

Grash lunges forward again, his massive frame straining against three guards now. "Back off!"

The guard captain's fist connects with Grash's jaw. "Remember your place, beast."

Grash's golden-brown eyes burn with murderous intent as they drag us forward.

The guard who hit Eira grabs her arm, his fingers digging into her skin. Her face remains blank, practiced, but I see the way her throat works, swallowing back whatever emotion threatens to break free.

"Move," another guard growls, shoving me forward. The metal of his gloved hand scrapes against my skin.

Murok's voice cuts through the tension, low and controlled. "Easy, Dren. There's a time for everything."

The guards laugh, thinking he speaks to Grash. They don't notice my fingers flexing.

I could kill them six different ways before they hit the ground. But that wouldn't help Eira in this moment. Wouldn't get us out of here effectively. So I let them push us down the damp corridor.

Grash's chest heaves with barely contained fury. Blood trickles from where the guard’s armored fist split his lip. But his eyes never leave Eira.

The torchlight flickers across her face, highlighting the red mark blooming on her cheek. She's breathing fast and shallow, but her spine is straight, her chin held high.

The guards soon shove us into the holding cell, their armored hands rough against our backs. The iron door slams shut with a clang that echoes through the stone chamber. Grash stumbles, catching himself against the wall while Murok rolls his shoulders, adjusting to the confined space.

Eira stumbles in last, her pale hair catching the dim torchlight. Her green eyes dart between us. She catalogs our every movement and breath.

But when I step closer, she doesn't shrink away. Interesting. Most humans can sense the darkness in me, the violence I keep carefully contained. Yet she meets my gaze steadily, even as a bruise blooms on her cheek where the guard struck her.

"Sit," I say, touching her arm with deliberate gentleness. The contact sends an unexpected spark through my skin. She allows the touch, moving where I guide her without hesitation.

That trust – or perhaps calculated compliance – unsettles something deep within me. I see the scars that mark her pale skin, the cruelty she must’ve endured. Yet she doesn't flinch from my touch. Doesn't shy away from my presence like prey before a predator.

Grash paces the cell like a caged beast while Murok leans against the far wall, his sharp eyes missing nothing. Eira settles in the corner, drawing her knees to her chest. She makes herself small, but her spine remains straight, her chin lifted. Even in submission, she maintains her dignity.

"You should rest," I say, my voice low. She nods once, sliding down the wall to curl into herself, making her body as small as possible while still maintaining awareness of every movement in the cell.

"She's going to be trouble," I murmur to Murok, low enough so only he can hear.

Something primitive stirs in my blood as I look at her laying there – not just desire, but an overwhelming need to protect. To destroy anyone who would dare harm her again.

Murok's lips curl into a knowing smirk. "So why are you looking at her like that?"

I don't answer. Can't answer. Because the truth burning in me makes no sense.