Chapter 26 Aurora
AURORA
Iam pressed so far into the dark, sticky corner of the booth that I can feel the rough, splintered wood digging into my back.
I am trying to disappear. The roar of the tavern rushes back in to fill the silence Othic created when he sat, a wave of noise that threatens to drown me.
My heart is a trapped bird, hammering against my ribs.
Othic’s massive, leather-clad form is a wall, a mountain of shadow separating me from the room.
He is a monster, but he is my monster. His presence is the only reason I am still breathing.
The air is a thick, choking fog of stale ale, unwashed bodies, smoke, and something else... a sharp, reptilian tang, like ozone and dust, that catches in my throat.
A woman approaches our table. A human woman.
She is topless, her skin a pale, almost translucent white in the gloom.
Her ribs are visible under her skin, and her large, bare breasts seem a heavy, sad burden on her thin frame.
Her eyes are hollow, empty, but she forces a smile that does not touch them.
"What can I get for you, big one?" she asks, her voice rough, cracked from disuse.
Othic does not even look at her. His gaze is fixed on the barkeep, a massive dfam elf who is polishing a mug with a filthy rag. Othic's voice is a low, demanding rumble. "Ale. And a bowl of water for my pet."
Pet.
The word is a slap. I know it is a lie. I know it is a performance, a shield he is using to protect me in this cesspit.
But the humiliation burns, hot and sharp, stinging my eyes.
I glare at the back of his head, my nails digging into my palms so hard I am surprised I do not draw blood. He does not see.
The barmaid returns. She places a heavy, dripping mug of ale in front of Othic. Then, with a look of practiced, profound indifference, she stoops and places a small, dirty wooden bowl of water on the floor next to my feet.
On the floor. Like a dog.
My rage is so sudden and hot it chokes me. I want to kick the bowl across the room, to shatter it against the wall. I am Iron Tusk. I am his clan. I am not a pet.
The barmaid, having delivered the "pet's" water, straightens up. She leans in close to Othic, deliberately brushing her bare breasts against his arm. "Anything else I can get you?" she whispers. "A warm bed for the night? I can... keep you company."
I watch her, and my white-hot rage flickers, replaced by a cold, familiar ache.
I see the hollow desperation in her eyes.
It is a mirror of my own at Privis’s estate.
She is not a flirt. She is a victim. She does not see a mate.
She sees a warrior with a weapon, an orc who might have coin.
She is just trying to survive her next hour.
Othic does not even turn his head. His response is a low vibration that cuts through the tavern's noise. "Go."
He does not shout. He refuses to look at her. But the word has a physical weight. The woman flinches as if struck, her forced smile crumbling. Her face pales, and she scurries away into the shadows. A small, bitter, and guilty part of me is satisfied.
I am still glaring at the disgusting bowl of water on the floor when I lean forward, my voice a fierce, possessive whisper only he can hear.
"Do you think she is pretty?"
Before he can answer, a new shadow falls over our table, blocking the dim, flickering light from the center of the room. I look up.
A naga.
He is tall, his skin covered in fine, shimmering green scales that catch the light. His eyes are black, lidless, with vertical, reptilian pupils. A cobra-like hood flares slightly from his neck as he gazes down at me, his head tilted in amusement. He smiles, revealing sharp, white fangs.
"How much for the bitch?"
My blood turns to ice. I feel Othic’s entire body go rigid beside me. The air crackles. This is the test. This is where we die. My hand creeps under my cloak, my fingers finding the cold, familiar hilt of my dagger.
The naga ignores Othic completely. He leans in, hissing at me. His forked tongue, black and glistening, flicks out, tasting my fear in the air. He is enjoying this. He is a predator, and I am his new, interesting toy.
"I have two cocks, you know."
A violent, involuntary shudder runs through me.
Bile rises in my throat. I press myself back into the wall, the splinters digging into my spine, my dagger now gripped tight in my fist. The eye.
The throat. Othic's training whispers in my head, a frantic, desperate prayer.
The knee. But I am frozen, my terror a physical cage.
Othic’s voice is a low, dangerous rumble. He sounds bored. But I am pressed against him. I can feel the solid wall of his muscle, coiled like a steel spring, vibrating with the urge to kill.
"She is already sold."
A lie. I almost gasp. He is trying to de-escalate.
The naga's smile widens. He does not believe it. His black, slit-pupiled eyes narrow, and he shifts his gaze to Othic for the first time, recognizing a challenge.
Othic changes tactics. He leans back, the movement casual, his voice becoming the rough, dismissive growl of a merchant. "But... I am paying coin for information."
The naga’s interest is piqued. His hood relaxes slightly. "Information is my trade."
"There are a group of orc scumbags that owe me money," Othic growls. "I think they may be hiding in Rach. Know of any new orcs been hanging around lately?"
He is hunting for his clan brothers. Gruk and Mogor. My heart aches. He is using his own desperate, real mission as a cover for us. He is brilliant. He is using the truth as a lie.
The naga's forked tongue flicks out again, this time in consideration. "I might have information that will be helpful." He holds out a long, clawed hand, his green scales shimmering. "Coin first."
My stomach drops. I feel Othic’s body tense. Coin. We have no coin. The ipia at the gate was all we had. We are trapped. He overplayed his hand. We are going to die.
Othic gives a short, harsh laugh. It sounds almost real, full of arrogance and disdain.
"My coin is in my bag," he snarls. "Out back, with my other human slave. The one who carries my things."
Other slave? My heart hammers so hard it hurts. This is an insane, desperate, brilliant gamble.
Othic stands, his shadow covering the table, plunging me into total darkness. He looks down at me, his face an unreadable mask of granite. Then he looks at the naga.
"Follow me," he commands.
He unloops the leather belt from his fist—my leash—and with a rough, proprietary yank, ties it around a thick, iron post on the booth. He pulls the knot tight. I am tethered.
"Do not move," he commands me, his voice harsh for the room to hear.
The naga grins, his fangs glinting, and follows Othic toward the back door. They disappear into the darkness of the alley. The door swings shut with a heavy thud.
I am alone.
I am tied to a post in the middle of the most dangerous tavern in the world.
My breath is shallow, coming in short, panicked gasps. I am "property" left unattended. I am a piece of meat left on a hook. My hand is gripping my dagger under my cloak, but what can I do? If I cut myself free, I break the illusion.
I count my breaths. One. Two. Three. My hands are shaking. The dfam elf at the bar is watching me. He is smiling. The topless barmaid is watching me, her eyes flat. A Minotaur in the corner snorts, a cloud of steam erupting from his nostrils. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
Where is he?
I hear a muffled thud from outside, a sound like a heavy sack of grain being dropped, but it is lost in the tavern's roar.
Please, Othic, come back. Please, please, come back.
The back door bursts open. Othic stalks back in.
Alone.
His knuckles are split and raw, dripping fresh, dark blood.
Oh, gods. He killed him. He killed him. He is a monster. He is my savior. He is walking toward me, his face dark and thunderous.
A different naga from a dark corner, his scales a dull, muddy brown, shouts across the room. His voice is a sharp, suspicious hiss. "Hey, Mersey! Where is Mersey? He just left with you?"
The tavern's noise level dips. The music stops. The laughter dies. Every eye in the room snaps to Othic. The air becomes a solid, heavy thing, pressing in on me.
Othic does not pause. He does not look at the naga. He does not break stride. He stalks toward me, his gaze locked on me.
"He is taking a shit!" he shouts over his shoulder, his voice full of disgust.
He is at my side. He does not untie the knot. His dagger flashes—a silver arc in the dim light. In one motion, he slashesthe thick leather belt, freeing me. He grabs my arm in a bruising grip.
"We are leaving," he whispers, a low, urgent command that cuts through my terror. "Walk."
He does not wait for an answer. He pulls me to my feet and we walk, not run, toward the front door. I keep my head down, my steps hurried but not panicked. I am his slave. He is my master. He is an orc who just finished his business.
I do not look at the naga in the corner. I do not look at the dfam at the bar. I just look at the floor, two steps behind him, as we walk calmly out the front door. We plunge back into the screaming, chaotic river of the Dark Market, and the tavern door swings shut behind us.