Chapter 7
Clover
We were over the ocean for a long time, but now I see the country of Uzrirgard.
It’s nothing like I expected.
From this height, I can see everything spreading out below us like a living map. It’s such an incredible sight I don’t even feel uneasy when I look at the ground.
The first thing that strikes me is the sheer amount of green.
Fields stretch in every direction, vast and verdant, broken up by forests so thick and dark they look almost black from up here.
Rivers cut through the land like silver veins, and I can see the glint of lakes scattered across the terrain.
I bet they’re freshwater lakes, filled with things I’ve only read about in books.
It’s the opposite of everything I know. Where my country is brown and dead, this place is alive. It’s thriving and so beautiful it takes my breath away. This is what it used to look like on our side of the world, before The Salting.
“Wow,” I breathe out, then feel a flicker of panic, because I’m not sure if that’s showing weakness.
“Yes, Uzrirgard is the most beautiful country you’ll ever see,” she says gently, smiling. “King Lix’tuk remembers a time when your country looked like this. Sadly, he’s the only one left who does, other than a few elder wolf shifters.”
Since she seems proud of her home and understanding of my awe, I continue staring, momentarily allowing myself to put the Reparations Penalty in the back of my head, but it lingers there, like the crack of a whip.
Something I’m going to hear soon, and it won’t come from a human.
It’ll come from an orc who can rip human limbs off with their bare hands.
But showing strength means I can’t focus on that. I have to accept it with dignity.
As we fly closer, I start to make out more details. There are cities. Massive ones, although none rival Concord City in size. But there are so many of them that Concord City suddenly feels less impressive.
None of these buildings resemble what I saw in our capital.
They’re built from dark stones looking like they were carved from the earth in some places.
Metal covers large sections of the stone, riveted like the panels on the ship and etched with similar designs.
They’re lit up enough for me to tell their technology rivals what I saw in Concord City.
It would have to, since they have flying ships.
As we continue moving across the landscape, I see smaller settlements dotting the horizon.
They look older and simpler than the cities, but the structures look better than anything in Troona.
Smoke rises from some of them. I can see what could be forges based on the way the fires glow, even from this distance.
Beyond that, I see endless fields of crops stretching out in every direction.
Grain that ripples like golden waves. Orchards filled with enough fruit to feed Troona for decades.
Vegetable gardens laid out in patterns. I can even see some livestock in the fields, likely grazing on all the green that surrounds them.
“Not much further until we reach Zrogmul. It’s where King Lix’tuk has chosen to spend his final days,” Lady Frax’mo says.
“Oh, we’re going there right now?” I ask, swallowing hard.
“Yes, the humans got you all dressed up,” she says, gesturing to my attire. “You’ll never look more presentable for meeting a king.”
The ship dips toward the ground, then veers left, and I have to steady myself. I’m no longer impressed by the sight of Uzrirgard. I’m worried about the Reparations Penalty again. I’m about to meet King Lix’tuk.
I already felt gift-wrapped in this dress, and now I actually am.
Will I be wearing it while I’m whipped, too?
Will it be torn off me, or will the whip handle that part?
More shudders of fear shoot through me as the ship lowers toward the ground, moving toward what looks like a fortress in the distance.
“Zrogmul?” I ask nervously.
“Yes,” Lady Frax’mo replies with a smile. “This used to be a stronghold, but now it’s just a place for an old orc to spend his final days, remembering the battles he commanded from here during The Great War.”
“How long do orcs live for?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the cracking of the whip in my head.
“We normally have similar lifespans to humans, although yours have only gotten shorter and ours have gotten longer since The Great War,” she answers.
“Because King Lix’tuk is from an ancient bloodline blessed by the Twelve Gods, he’s lived several lifetimes, but I guess you could say he’s reached his last one. ”
We get closer to Zrogmul, and I start to notice some of the features. The stone is weathered and aged. The metal is cracked in some places, rusted in others. The symbols are faint, barely even noticeable. There are large orc standards with various designs, but they’re faded, and several are ragged.
“This place looks kind of abandoned,” I observe, then bite my tongue, hoping I didn’t just insult some historical landmark.
“Only one ghost still haunting this place,” she says casually as the ship comes to a stop on a gigantic stone landing pad. At least that’s what I assume it is. “King Lix’tuk sent his servants and staff away years ago. But he’s still our king, so we make sure he’s well taken care of.”
The pilot doesn’t say anything at all. Lady Frax’mo gets up from her seat and opens the door. The ramp lowers and she gestures for me to follow her, and I obey, doing my best to look dignified. As dignified as a girl with trembling legs can manage.
The fortress looks menacing and cold. Like some kind of prison instead of a home.
Is this where I’m going to live for the rest of my life?
With an old orc in his final days? If he’s the only one inside, does that mean he’ll whip me personally?
I shudder at the thought. But if he’s old enough for these to be his final days, maybe he’s…
not so strong anymore. I’m grasping at any shred of hope now.
“You’re on your own from here,” Lady Frax’mo says, sweeping her hand toward Zrogmul.
“Wait, on my own? Does he know I’m coming?” I ask, my eyes widening with concern.
“He knows a gift is being delivered, yes. My husband informed him when we reached Uzrirgard. He doesn’t know what the gift is, but he’ll figure it out when he sees you. Just remember to be respectful, polite, and address him properly,” she reminds me.
“I will,” I murmur, the tightness returning to my stomach with so much intensity I’m scared I might fall to my knees. “And… I’ll remember to be dignified.”
“Good girl, I think you’ll do fine,” she says, smiling warmly.
I take a deep breath, exhale slowly, and start down the path toward the fortress.
Two massive steel doors wait at the end.
I’m still trying to figure out how I could possibly open one when they creak apart on their own, moved by some hidden mechanism that seems far too advanced for a place this old.
I take one last look at the outside world, scared I may never see it again. Lady Frax’mo is already on her ship and it’s hovering, like they’re waiting to confirm I’m inside before they depart.
This is the moment I’ve been dreading my entire life, and it’s worse than I imagined.
Like most second-borns, I spent a lot of time thinking about every option.
I ranked orc second on my list, below wolf shifters.
Unlike Rose, I foolishly ranked a wealthy man over demon possession, but I’d definitely change the order now.
But the order doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ve been sold to an orc who has gifted me to a king.
The very same king responsible for The Salting.
The one who demanded reparations for the atrocities humans committed.
It seems like I’m the worst possible option for a companion in his final days.
Despite all my hesitations, I step through the doors, feeling like I’m walking into my tomb. They close behind me as my eyes adjust to the light.
There’s a long hallway directly ahead of me and a door on my right and left. I’m not sure which direction I should go. The floor is grey stone, as are the walls. The hallway is illuminated by artificial torches that look out of place. Between them are large paintings.
“Hello?” I call out, unsure which direction I should go.
There’s no answer except my echo. I walk to the door on the right, and it’s locked, so I try the one on the left.
“Okay, both doors are locked,” I mumble under my breath.
Straight ahead is my only option. I glance at the paintings as I walk past them, but I don’t linger long enough to take in all the details. They appear to be paintings of battles, based on what I can see. I can’t read orcish, so none of the plaques underneath them are decipherable for me.
I try every door I pass, and they’re all locked. At the end of the hallway, another set of large metal doors blocks my path. Once again, they creak open as I approach, clearly letting me know I’m either going the right direction, or blindly walking into some weird, elaborate, orc trap.
But I’m already trapped. I’ve been trapped since the day I was born, and things I didn’t even know I should fear are making my legs tremble. I summon whatever functions as courage at this point and continue on, walking through the doors.
As soon as I walk through them, my jaw drops slightly. It’s a throne room. A throne room with a king sitting on the throne.
The room is massive, big enough to hold everyone in Troona with space left over.
The ceiling soars at least four stories high, supported by round pillars carved from dark stone.
Each pillar is etched with intricate battle scenes.
Warrior orcs locked in combat, their weapons raised, their faces twisted in triumph or agony.
But what catches my attention is the huge brute staring at me: King Lix’tuk. If the throne he’s sitting on isn’t a dead giveaway, the worn, ruby-encrusted crown that sits low on his brow certainly is.
I didn’t have long to create an image of him in my head, but he’s not what I expected.
I thought he’d be old. Frail, even. Bent with age and weakened from wars that ended long before I was born.
Lady Frax’mo said these were his final days, so I pictured someone ancient and withered. Maybe even sickly.
But the orc sitting on the throne is none of those things.
He’s massive. Even sitting, I can tell he’s easily over seven feet tall, maybe closer to eight.
His shoulders are so broad they seem to fill the throne, and his arms are thick with muscle.
He’s built like a beast born for battle, all hard edges and raw power, with not an ounce of softness anywhere on him.
His skin is deep forest green, darker than Lady Frax’mo’s, with an almost grayish undertone. Or maybe that’s because of the scars. Most of the skin not covered by armor is marked by gashes and deep battle wounds probably older than I am.
He has a strong, brutal jawline, square and unforgiving, with prominent cheekbones that cast shadows across his face in the flickering light of the artificial torches along the walls.
His nose looks like it’s been broken so many times it’s permanently jagged like an extra scar on his face.
His brow is thick beneath his crown, shadowing black eyes deeper than onyx.
Two thick tusks curve up from his lower jaw, yellowed with age, but still sharp at the tips.
The only real sign of his age that I can see is a few strands of grey in his long, flowing black mane.
“You must be the gift,” he rumbles dryly. “I should have known Lord Frax’mo and his wife wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“My name is Clover, Your Majesty,” I whisper, feeling both trapped and overwhelmed by his imposing glare.
“You’re the first human ever to set foot in one of my throne rooms,” he says, tilting his head slightly, like he’s studying me. “You might as well come closer, so I can see you, little human girl.”
I take one nervous step forward, then two, and keep forcing my feet to move until I’m in the middle of the room. I don’t have enough courage to get closer. I don’t know what to say, and this feels like a good time to keep my mouth shut.
So, I stand where I am. Waiting to be judged. Waiting to be told what to do.
I’m his gift.
But I have no idea what he’ll do with me.