Her Rugged Orcs

6. Murok

6

MUROK

I lean against the rough stone wall of our cell, watching Grash pace like a caged animal. My braids brush against my shoulders as I shake my head at his restlessness. Strength got us this far, but it won't get us out. Not with three dead guards hidden under the straw at our feet. The metallic scent of their blood mingles with the musty underground air.

I turn my head and look out our open cell door into the dimly lit corridor. The guards' overconfidence in leaving it open while they attempted to kidnap Eira last night might be our only advantage.

She sits in the corner, her pale hair catching what little light filters in. Those green eyes of hers miss nothing. Just like me. She's been trained to survive, to read situations and people. That kind of intelligence is worth more than brute force right now.

Grash continues his relentless pacing. "We should fight our way out now," he growls, flexing his massive shoulders.

I remain silent. Three days until the guard change. Three days to use this situation to our advantage. We need more than just the three of us – we need allies who know the layout, the routines, the weak points of this hellhole.

I lean forward, my braids sliding over my shoulders as I break the tense silence. "No, we need to use what you started."

"What do you suggest?" Dren's silver eyes catch the torchlight, his voice low.

"We play the game." I sweep my gaze across our cell, taking in the dried blood staining the straw. "Every fighter in these pits saw Grash claim her. They're waiting to see what happens next. Let's give them something worth watching – and worth joining."

Grash stops his pacing, his massive frame blocking the dim light from the corridor. "Explain."

"Three days until the guard change. Three days where no one will look for these bodies." I tap my boot against the concealed corpses. "That's our window. But we need more than just us. We need the ones who know every crack in these walls, every shift change, every weak point."

The sound of distant fighting echoes through the stone corridors as I turn to Eira. "You're a human slave. You know how to negotiate, don't you?"

Those green eyes of hers sharpen instantly, catching my meaning. The way she holds herself changes subtly – shoulders softening, head tilting just so. She knows exactly what I'm suggesting – using her perceived weakness as a strength, offering what these fighters think they want to secure their help.

"The other fighters will expect you to be passed around," I continue, keeping my voice steady despite the way my jaw clenches at the thought. "We can use that expectation. Make them think helping us is their only chance to have what Grash claimed for himself."

Dren shifts in the shadows, his presence becoming more menacing. Grash's growl rumbles through the cell. But I keep my eyes on Eira, watching the calculations running behind those sharp eyes of hers. She hasn't responded yet, but I can see her mind working, weighing options just as I would.

Her fingers still their tracing in the dirt, and the bitterness in her voice cuts through the dank air. "So, you want me to use the only thing I was trained for."

My jaw tightens. The truth of her words tastes bitter in my mouth, but survival demands pragmatism. "I want you to use what they expect against them. Their assumptions are their weakness."

She rises from her corner, dirt falling from her simple silk dress. The torchlight catches the faded marks on her pale skin, testament to years of "training" I'd rather not contemplate.

Her green eyes lock with mine, challenging. "And what happens when they expect more than promises?"

"Nothing happens that we don't allow," I say, my voice dropping to a dangerous pitch. "You're not actually being offered. You're bait in a trap."

Grash's growl fills the cell. "If anyone touches her?—"

"They won't," I cut him off. "Because we'll be watching. Every moment. Every interaction." I turn back to Eira. "You're not a tool. You're a player in this game now."

She steps closer, studying each of us in turn. The way she moves reminds me of a predator assessing potential allies – careful, weighing the risk against reward. Her gaze lingers on Dren's silver eyes, Grash's protective stance, before returning to me.

The silence stretches between us as she considers our alliance. Then something shifts in her posture – subtle, but unmistakable. Her shoulders straighten and her chin lifts. No longer a victim, but a huntress.

"I'll do it," she says, her voice steady. "But on one condition – I choose which fighters to approach. I know which ones are desperate enough to be useful, and which ones are too dangerous to trust."

I nod firmly, respecting her insight. She's survived this long by reading people – it's time we put that skill to use for our freedom.

The shadows cloak our movements as we slip through the torch-lit corridors. I scan each intersection before signaling the others forward. The regular cells stretch before us, a maze of iron bars and desperate souls.

Eira moves like silk on water between us, her steps precise and silent. My tactical mind catalogs every detail – the way she pauses at certain cells, the slight tilt of her head when something catches her interest. She's reading these fighters like I read battlefield maps.

"Stay close to us," I murmur, placing my hand on the small of her back. The touch is possessive, a clear signal to the watching eyes that she belongs to us. The fighters press against their bars as we pass, drawn by her presence like moths to flame.

Grash's growl rumbles behind us. "I don't like this."

"You don't have to like it," I say, keeping my voice steady. "You just have to trust her judgment right now."

Eira stops before a particular cell, her eyes sharp in the dim light. She doesn't speak, doesn't point, but I catch the way her fingers twitch – marking this one in her mental ledger.

"Some of these men have nothing left to lose," Dren whispers, his silver eyes scanning the shadows.

"That's exactly what we need," I reply, watching Eira's calculated pause before another cell. "Men with nothing to lose will fight the hardest for a chance at something more."

She moves again, each step deliberate. The silk of her dress whispers against stone as she leads us deeper into the cell block. The air grows thicker here, heavy with desperation and unwashed bodies.

"I've seen enough," she says finally, her voice barely a breath.

I nod, noting how she's managed to survey the entire block without drawing attention to her true purpose. Clever girl. "Back to our cell then."

As we retreat, I catch the calculating gleam in her eye. She's chosen her targets, but she's smart enough to keep that information close for now. In a place like this, even the walls have ears.