Chapter 8
Lix’tuk
I usually despise the smell of humans.
This one’s scent is almost pleasing. Maybe it’s because it reminds me of The Great War. Salt. Sand. Just enough fear to sweeten the air.
Two hundred years ago, I signed a treaty that allowed us to buy humans after the war ended.
Humans called it reparations. Their way of apologizing for their atrocities.
Leave it to humans to find a way to profit from an apology.
I hated the necessity as much as I hated their kind.
But we faced extinction. So did the wolf shifters.
Not our fault humans were made to breed with anything and ruin everything else they touch.
During The Great War, they tried to commit genocide. They released a virus that made every orc woman infertile. A virus so deadly that it didn’t stop after it spread across Uzrirgard. The wolf shifters fell victim to it too, and they had been neutral up until that point.
And if that wasn’t enough of an atrocity, when the wolf shifters joined the fight, the humans dropped bombs that opened a rift to the underworld. A rift that allowed demons to escape and now they’re a blight on our world, just like the fucking humans.
After we allied with the wolf shifters and closed the rift, I wanted to hunt the remaining humans to extinction. Put an end to their evil once and for all. But we couldn’t. The orcs and wolf shifters needed humans to save our bloodlines from annihilation.
But we don’t need humans anymore. We claimed enough human wombs to drag Uzrirgard back from the brink of annihilation and then cured the virus. Now, the only time an orc buys a human is if they want a pet.
I don’t want a pet. Especially a human. So, what the fuck am I going to do with this… gift? I can’t send her back to Lord and Lady Frax’mo. It’s considered a slight against the Twelve Gods for a king to refuse a gift from one of his subjects.
I could ignore her until I die. Let her wander in these halls like a ghost. What’s another one, at this point? I’d rather just lock her in my dungeon and let time take care of the problem for me, but it doesn’t feel right, and that irritates me more than her presence.
I just want to live out my final days in peace. Uzrirgard no longer needs a king. There are no wars left to fight. No land left to conquer. Unlike humans, we don’t pick fights that will bring no honor or glory.
“Come closer, little human girl,” I grumble, glaring at her after she stops in the middle of the throne room. “I don’t like to yell unless I’m shouting orders across a battlefield.”
My gaze doesn’t leave her as she takes a few more nervous steps forward.
She’s pretty for a human. Soft, light brown hair that needs to be combed out, braided, and adorned with jewels. Despite the fear in her brown eyes, they’re beautiful. Maybe the fear makes them even more appealing to a battle-hardened brute like me.
We learned long ago that humans are aesthetically pleasing to us. Probably because we can breed with them. Instincts the Twelve Gods blessed us with when they molded the first orcs from the green earth near the heart of Uzrirgard. The color of her dress reminds me of that sacred ground.
The humans painted her up, wrapped her in silk, and sold her.
“That’s better,” I growl once she’s as close as I’d ever want a human to be, unless I’m raising my axe to end them. “Do you know why you’re here?”
Lord Frax’mo said he would be dropping off a gift.
I told him it was unnecessary, but he said his wife insisted, so this is likely more her doing than his.
I should have known I was asking for trouble when I allowed those two to wed.
Every other Lord and Lady who answers to me respects my wishes.
Lady Frax’mo finds ways to twist around them, just like she has now.
“I was told I would be a gift for you, Your Majesty,” she answers, trying desperately to hide her fear. I don’t think she realizes I can smell it. See right through the courage she’s trying to manifest. “Someone to keep you company during your final days.”
“And what makes you think I want or need someone to keep me company?” I rumble, narrowing my eyes, my crown shifting slightly. “Especially a human.”
Her eyes widen slightly, her mask of courage wavering for a moment. She’s considering her words carefully.
She wasn’t just warned, she was coached.
But that won’t help her. I’ll have her on her knees, begging for mercy, just like the humans I used to line up in front of me after the battle was won.
The ones we executed for throwing down their weapons like cowards instead of dying with steel in their hands like warriors.
“I don’t have a say in it, Your Majesty. I’m only a gift,” she replies.
“A more intelligent reply than I would have expected from one of your kind,” I admit. “Who told you to say that? Lady Frax’mo?”
“No, Your Majesty. She told me to address you properly. To be respectful and polite,” she says. “I would have done that anyway.”
“Why? Are you afraid of me?” I ask.
She looks down at the floor for a moment, then meets my gaze, lip trembling in a way that is almost adorable. “Yes, I’m afraid of you. I won’t deny that, Your Majesty. But my parents raised me to be kind to everyone.”
“Is it kindness or weakness, little human girl?” I ask, finding the conversation more interesting than I expected. “Do you think being kind will make me merciful?”
“No, Your Majesty,” she breathes out, fear seeping around her mask of bravery like an intoxicating tease. “I don’t expect you to show me mercy.”
“Lady Frax’mo warned you about the Reparations Penalty, didn’t she?” I ask, leaning forward, watching her wither beneath my gaze.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she whispers, her voice cracking, a drop of moisture in her right eye.
It’s an old tradition that dates back to the end of The Great War. Fifty lashes, one for each water reservoir poisoned by humans. The penalty seemed justified when it was being carried out by an orc woman with a womb ruined by the humans’ atrocities.
“Then do what all of your kind do,” I growl, waving a hand at her dismissively. “Fall to your knees. Cry. Beg me to spare you. Maybe if you shed enough tears for me to believe you’re truly sorry for what your people did, I’ll show mercy.”
I don’t respect tears or begging, but it’s a nice song to listen to.
It’s been too long since I’ve heard it. If she’s convincing enough, I might stop when I draw blood.
I’m the only one here, so I’ll have to punish her personally instead of handing her off to someone else, like I’ve done in the past. I don’t even like humans enough to whip them.
I wait for her to unravel as I watch the tear finally trickle down her cheek, leaving a trail in the paint.
I can taste her fear now and it’s delicious.
Her legs wobble, teasing me with the submission she’s desperate to embrace.
But instead of falling, she straightens.
She meets my gaze again, a hint of defiance behind her terrified stare.
“I’m sorry for what humans did to your people, Your Majesty. Truly,” she says. “But I wasn’t alive then, and begging won’t change what happened. If you intend to punish me for what my ancestors did, I’ll take it with as much dignity as I can.”
Not what I expected. Most humans aren’t this brave. Even if Clover was warned about me by Lady Frax’mo, I offered mercy. That should be enough to put her on her knees. For the first time in two hundred years, a human disappoints me by refusing to be exactly what I expect.
“Then you’ll be punished. Fifty lashes, just like every other human,” I growl, rising to my feet, towering over the girl at the base of my throne.
I take the stairs down from the raised platform slowly and with purpose.
Not because I’m in my final days. I may be the oldest living orc, but I’ll be a match for any of my kind until the Twelve Gods call me home.
I just want to see her reaction. Watch the terror bloom in her eyes when she realizes this is really happening.
But she doesn’t move. She’s so scared her legs are shaking, but she refuses to fall to her knees. Refuses to beg for mercy. Is it true bravery or foolishness? Maybe it’s time to let the whip decide.
“You will regret not begging for mercy when I still cared enough to listen to your pleas,” I growl, not showing any pity at all as I roughly grab her right arm, dragging her behind me as I walk toward a door on the right side of my throne room.
She whimpers from the pressure on her arm, so I tighten my grip, just so she’ll whimper louder. I drag her through one door, then another. She finds her footing and is practically running along helplessly, unable to match my stride. No human can, and I’m not even trying to move fast.
She loses a shoe and reaches for it, but I yank her toward the door to my dungeon.
We kept some humans down here during the war.
That was the only part of Zrogmul they ever saw.
Taking prisoners during war isn’t our way, but after the virus, my people needed to see some of them suffer for their crimes.
Death felt too kind when the wounds were so fresh.
“Down the stairs,” I rumble, holding onto her arm so she doesn’t go down them headfirst.
The artificial torches ignite as we approach them, lighting the way, casting the dungeon in an eerie glow once we get to the bottom of the stairs.
The dark stone walls are rough and ancient, built when Zrogmul was a true fortress rather than a tomb filled with ghosts.
Iron rings protrude from the walls at shoulder height.
Orc shoulder height, which means they’re far above the human girl’s head.
Rusted chains dangle from some, swaying slightly.