Chapter 14
I had grown used to waking before the sun since I started training with Malek. My body still ached, my muscles protested, yet a quiet sense of expectation pulled me from the hard bed, easing the grip of exhaustion and the lingering weight of the previous days.
I dressed quickly, my heart racing with an anticipation I refused to analyze too deeply. It wasn’t anxiety, I told myself; it was simply discipline and the determination to become stronger.
As I moved through the village, some people nodded and greeted me like I truly belonged—something that, even after days, still surprised me. Before I even reached the meadow, the air was already vibrating with voices and the sharp whistle of weapons cutting through the air.
When I finally arrived, Malek wasn’t alone. A ring of males and females crowded the training ground, their attention locked on a brutal fight unfolding at its center. Cheers erupted at every well-placed strike, while jeers and taunts cut through the air whenever their favored champion faltered.
I slipped closer, unnoticed, weaving through the crowd until I had a clear view. My breath caught.
Malek lunged at an orc nearly his height, though broader, his fists driving into the creature’s ribs in sharp, controlled bursts while the other struggled to block. He didn’t just fight—he danced with the violence, dodging his opponent’s blows with feline agility.
His opponent managed to land a few blows, but never enough to change the course of the fight.
Malek absorbed the strikes, shortened the distance between them, and then, in a swift motion, seized his opponent’s arm.
Using his weight, he threw the orc off balance, sending him flipping through the air before slamming him to the ground.
The impact landed with a heavy thud, and the crowd erupted in cheers.
Despite the defeat, the fallen orc grinned, baring his fangs as the onlookers roared their approval.
Malek raised his arms and let out a roar, sending the noise surging higher. Sweat and dirt covered him, his chest rising and falling with each breath, but the sight was impossible to ignore.
The Okshai looked at him with something close to devotion—and it was easy to see why. He wasn’t just their leader. He was the clan’s shield and blade.
His eyes gleamed with victory when they found mine. A spark in them held me in place, my stomach tightening at the thought of what he might teach me today. Then a slow smile spread across his lips, deep enough to reveal his dimples.
The air seemed to thin in my lungs. I swallowed hard and realized I was smiling back before I even noticed, my heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the fight, and everything to do with him.
The circle of orcs parted, clearing a path for him.
"Mo’nk, Ruk’hai," I greeted him. Up close, the veins in his forearms stood out beneath his skin.
Malek kept smiling, his sharp fangs on display, stirring that strange feeling deep in my core. I ignored it.
“You watched me?” he asked, barely holding back his excitement.
“I did,” I said, my cheeks warming. “You’re very good.”
He stepped closer, grabbed a linen towel from a log, and wiped the sweat from his neck and shoulders.
“You,” he said, pointing at me with it, “will fight me.”
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.
I reached for the armor and began to put it on; each leather strap I tightened felt like a silent promise to myself.
I would never be useless again. As I fastened the final buckle, I felt the weight and restriction of the leather against my skin.
Orc armor was simple, designed to absorb impact rather than to be fancy, and it smelled faintly of tanned leather and earth.
Malek waited in silence, his gaze fixed on me the entire time. The weight of his attention made my hands sweat as I finished adjusting the gear.
“Ready?” he asked, and I nodded.
He reached for a thick leather belt hanging from a nearby stump and fastened it around my waist, adjusting it carefully.
Then he took a simple dagger with a short, wide blade and secured it at my side.
It wasn’t the thin, elegant blade I had used in Ceilte, which I had lost along with my magical bag and the Orb of Caith, but it was lethal.
“First, without weapons,” he instructed. “Hands.”
Malek stepped in front of me; he was bare except for a leather loincloth, arms crossed over his chest. The difference between us was obvious. He was a wall of muscle while I was…not.
“Attack.”
“Already?” I asked.
“Yes. Attack.”
I steeled myself, recalling what Astor—the guard who had trained me—had taught me.
I lunged, aiming a quick punch at his side, hoping speed would make up for size.
Malek barely moved. He leaned aside, and my fist met the air.
Before I could recover, his hand caught my wrist and pulled me forward, using my own momentum against me.
In an instant, he trapped me—one arm tight around my neck, the other pinning my wrist behind my back.
“Stop,” he said softly against my ear, sending a shiver through me that had nothing to do with fear. “What did you do wrong?” His grip didn’t hurt, but I couldn’t break free. I tried anyway. “You rushed,” he went on. “You chose speed and lost your balance.”
He loosened his hold just enough to turn me to him, without fully letting go. With his free hand, he adjusted my stance, nudging my feet into place and pushing my hips back slightly.
“Power comes from here,” he said, touching my core. “Not from the arm.”
Malek released my wrist, then took my fist and adjusted it, curling my fingers properly with my thumb on the outside.
“Don’t open your hand. Never,” he said. “Move your hips.”
I did exactly as he instructed, adjusting my stance until he nodded, satisfied. On the next attempt, I managed to strike his palm, but Malek didn’t move a single muscle.
“Again.”
I clenched my hands into fists once more and lunged at him.
? ? ?
Malek made me train for hours, focusing not only on strength but on technique; how to take a hit, pivot away from an attack, and use my body weight to maximize impact. Every time I attacked, he answered with a swift, precise counter, stopping me before I could follow through.
I hit the ground more times than I cared to count. The armor, which had been uncomfortable at first, now felt like a second skin, softening each fall. Being so easily overpowered by Malek stung, but with every impact, my resolve only hardened.