13. Eira
13
EIRA
M orning light filters through the tangled roots above. I blink away sleep, watching Murok stoke the remains of last night's fire. The confusion that's been gnawing at me surges back full force.
Grash hands me a makeshift water skin. "Drink," he says, his voice low. Not an order - an offer.
My fingers brush his as I take it, and that familiar warmth spreads through my chest. I hate how my body betrays me, responding to their kindness like a flower turning toward the sun.
These are orcs. Monsters. The stories I grew up with painted them as brutal creatures driven by base desires. Yet here they are, treating me with more care than any human or dark elf master ever has.
"We should reach the river by midday," Murok says, passing me some dried meat from his makeshift pack. Again, making sure I eat first.
I chew slowly, studying them through my lashes. Dren catches my gaze and gives me that slight nod - the one that somehow makes me feel seen without feeling exposed. My stomach twists.
The forest path stretches ahead as we begin walking. My legs are stronger today. I watch Grash's broad back as he leads the way, remembering how his laugh rumbled through his chest when I was pressed against it. I think about Murok's quiet efficiency in caring for our needs, and Dren's silent vigilance that makes me feel safer than any locked door ever did.
What do they want from me? I keep turning that question over in my mind. They haven't demanded anything from me yet - no payment in flesh. No cruel games or power plays. Just... protection. Care. Things I'd forgotten could exist without conditions.
"Watch your step," Murok warns as we navigate a steep incline. His hand hovers near my elbow but doesn't grab.
My throat tightens. I should run. I should run right now.
But I don't.
The night soon wraps around us like a thick blanket as we settle into a small clearing. My muscles ache from the endless walking, and exhaustion pulls at my limbs. Dren spreads his cloak on the ground, gesturing for me to lie down.
"Rest," Murok says, his blue eyes scanning the perimeter.
I curl up on my side, pulling my knees to my chest. The fabric of Dren's cloak smells like pine and leather. My eyelids grow heavy, but sleep doesn't come. Instead, I drift in that hazy space between waking and dreaming.
"She's finally asleep," Grash's voice rumbles low. "We really need to get her to Kira soon."
My heart stutters. Kira? My sister's name sends ice through my veins.
"The chief's wife will be pleased we found her," Murok replies. "Though getting captured wasn't completely part of the plan."
"Getting thrown in the pits put us right where we needed to be," Grash says. "Kira's informants were right about where they'd sold her sister."
The world tilts sideways. My sister... married to their chief? The same sister I lost in the raid ten years ago? My fingers dig into Dren's cloak, but I force my breathing to remain steady.
"Still," Murok continues, "when Kira learned her little sister had been sold to the pits..."
"She nearly burned down half the camp," Grash finishes. "Never seen the chief so worried about keeping his wife from charging in herself."
My throat closes up. All this time, while I was being passed from owner to owner, my sister was alive. Free. Powerful enough to send warriors to find me.
"Think we should tell her?" Grash asks.
"Not yet," Murok says. "She's been through enough. Let her trust us first."
Trust. The word echoes in my head like a mockery. Their kindness wasn't kindness at all - just a mission. A duty to their chief's wife. To my sister.
I want to scream. To run. To demand answers.
But I lie still, every muscle tense as their words sink into my bones like poison. All this time, they were just following orders. My fingers curl, but I force them to relax, maintaining the illusion of sleep.
The warmth of their fire reaches me, but inside, I'm frozen. I was so stupid to think they saw anything in me worth saving. Their gentle touches, their protective gestures - all carefully calculated parts of their mission.
"She's stronger than Kira described," Murok says, his voice low. "Surviving like that."
My throat tightens. Even their compliments feel like lies now. The memory of Dren's arm around me burns - was that planned too? Every shared laugh with Grash, every quiet moment with Murok, all orchestrated to gain my trust?
The night air presses against my skin, but the crushing weight on my chest is heavier. I'd started to believe... what? That three orc warriors would look at a broken slave and see something worth protecting? Worth caring for?
"The way she killed that guard," Grash rumbles. "Quick. Clean."
"She's had to learn to survive," Murok replies.
Survive. That's all I've ever done. Survived being sold, survived being used, survived being broken. And now I'm just another mission to complete, another objective to check off their list.
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it. I turn my face into the cloak, hiding it, hating how the fabric still smells like Dren. Hating how safe that scent makes me feel, even now.
The conversation drifts to watch rotations and travel plans, but their words blur together as exhaustion and emotion drag me under. My last conscious thought is of Dren's silver eyes meeting mine, and how real that moment had felt.
How real I'd thought it was.
I slip into sleep with the taste of betrayal bitter in my mouth.
The morning sun does nothing to warm the ice in my chest. I stare into the flames, watching them dance and blur as unshed tears sting my eyes. My fingers trace mindless patterns in the dirt, anything to keep from looking at them - my "protectors."
The crunch of leaves announces Murok's approach before he settles beside me, close enough that his arm brushes mine. I force myself not to flinch away.
"You're thinking too hard," he says, his voice carrying that familiar hint of amusement that once made my stomach flutter. Now it just makes me want to scream.
I glance at him sideways, taking in his sharp profile, the way his braids catch the morning light. He's watching me with those piercing blue eyes, like he can see right through me. Maybe he can. Maybe that's why they chose him for this mission - to read me, to manipulate me.
"I think I hate you," I mutter, and the words taste like truth on my tongue. Hate is simple. Clean. So much safer than the warmth that spreads through my chest when he looks at me like that.
"That's a start," he says with a smirk, clearly thinking I'm joking.
I'm not.
His shoulder presses against mine, casual and intimate, and my heart clenches traitorously. Yes, hate is definitely safer than whatever this is. Hate won't shatter me when they finally complete their mission and hand me over to my sister like a wrapped package.