Chapter 17
Lix’tuk
Moiraroot is supposed to give me more clarity, not make me weaker.
So weak that I didn’t push Clover’s hand away when she started touching me. I didn’t even keep the fur barrier between us. Once I felt her hand, I wanted more. I gave in like a weak old fool. I let a fucking human defile me. Then she tasted my seed.
I should have known she wouldn’t be able to resist once it was all over her.
I’ve heard all the stories. Orc essence is pleasing to humans.
They could even live off it, if that was all they were fed.
Plenty of humans were required to do that after The Great War.
We took humans for our survival, but some orcs are even more cruel than I am.
Am I really cruel, or just an old orc who has lost my touch? Lost my grip on the truths I’ve built my life around. It’s frustrating. Annoying. Just like the girl who is wandering around my fortress, shining little rays of sunshine everywhere with her fucking sweet smile.
Now I’m sitting on my throne. Her scent is no longer on my fingers, and apparently, I miss it, because I keep bringing them close to my face. Every time I don’t smell her, I get a little more frustrated, a little more annoyed.
The worst part is that this is the one day I’m busy.
The one day I have to meet with someone personally, instead of just on video.
That’s rare for me. The only reason I agreed to meet with Lord Bruz in person is because his ancestors are ghosts in this fortress.
I used to be rather close with the family.
If I wasn’t waiting on Lord Bruz to arrive, I might not be able to wait until tonight to put Clover over my knee.
Spank her for tasting my seed while she squirms against my cock.
Then… fuck. I said I was going to taste her.
I’m trying to blame it on the moiraroot and the grog, but deep down, I know there’s more to it. I want to taste her.
“What the fuck is happening to me?” I grumble, pulling my fingers away from my face again.
I don’t get to dwell on it because I get a notification that Lord Bruz’s ship is approaching.
The same notification I got the night Clover arrived as my gift.
Maybe I should have shut my fucking doors and refused the gift.
I barely believe in the Twelve Gods anymore.
I’m not sure why I always go out of my way to avoid slighting them.
I’m not as close with the current Lord Bruz as I was with those who held the title before him.
Mainly because I don’t spend much time interacting with the current nobility.
I’m weary from watching orcs die. At least during The Great War, most of the deaths were honorable.
These days, time is the only real enemy we have.
My armor is more formal today. For show, instead of battle.
The kind I wear when I get visitors during daylight hours, instead of right before bed.
Most orcs don’t wear armor anymore. Why would they?
It doesn’t protect them against work stress or an overbearing boss.
I just never learned how to truly take mine off.
The doors open and Lord Bruz walks in. He’s a few shades darker than me.
My family is from the Highlands of Uzrirgard and his is from the Fertile Valley.
Everything is a little greener there, even the orcs.
His attire is formal enough for me to know he doesn’t wear it often. He got dressed up to see his king.
“Your Majesty,” Lord Bruz growls, lowering his head in a show of respect. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I wouldn’t have insisted, unless I felt it was urgent.”
“So you said,” I reply, leaning forward. “And what is so urgent, Lord Bruz? Something that required you to come all the way to Zrogmul to say it in person.”
He looks down and takes a deep breath like he’s choosing his words carefully. I’m used to seeing this when I have an orc in front of me. It’s always easier for them to speak when my face is on a screen, barely paying attention to them. Now, he has the full weight of my attention.
“It’s the Lords and Ladies, Your Majesty,” he says hesitantly. “They’re getting restless. More restless than usual.”
“I speak to them all regularly,” I snarl. “They don’t seem restless to me. They’ve got jobs to do, and they do them. What could make them restless?”
I know the answer. The same thing it always is. I just want to make Lord Bruz say it out loud. That way I can gauge which side of the eternal debate he falls on.
“The prophecy, Your Majesty,” he says.
“Which one?” I ask, exhaling sharply, even though I know the answer to that too. “There are so many.”
“The one about your family,” he clarifies. “About what happens at the end of your reign.”
“Right, that one,” I say dryly. “I think we both know kings are a dying breed, Lord Bruz. The humans now elect their officials. The wolf shifters still follow their Alphas, but they’re driven by instinct. There’s little use for royalty in this world.”
He mumbles something. I’m sure I offended him. He’s royalty too, just a different shade.
“I didn’t want to risk this being recorded, repeated, or softened by a screen,” he says.
“There are none here, Lord Bruz,” I growl. “Just us.”
He takes a deep breath, swallows hard, and nods.
“I don’t think the Lords and Ladies will ever agree on elections, Your Majesty,” he says carefully. “They’re restless because many believe one of their children should be the next to sit on that throne.”
“If that’s what they decide, that’s what they decide,” I growl, shrugging a shoulder. “The next king can have my throne as soon as I ascend to stand at the feet of the Twelve Gods.”
“But… Your Majesty. They won’t decide. That’s the problem. Some are preparing for war,” he says, wincing a little.
“Against me?” I raise a brow, my spine tingling with anticipation at the thought of a fight.
“No! Never, Your Majesty!” he says hurriedly. “War against each other… to take your throne once you’re gone.”
“They’re preparing now? I’m in my final days, I’m not dead,” I snarl.
“How long would you prepare for a war?” he asks, looking me in the eyes.
“Fuck,” I bark, shaking my head.
If the war will be in fifty years or a hundred years, a wise orc would be making preparations today. They’d hide behind a smile when they’re on video, then immediately continue plotting once the cameras are off.
“It’s not how I’d prefer to leave things after I’m gone,” I admit. “But maybe Uzrirgard has known peace too long, if orcs would turn on each other over a throne. Maybe they need a reminder of the price of war. None of them have ever paid it with blood.”
“Something we’re grateful for. Truly,” Lord Bruz says. “I don’t want a war. I stand with Lord Frax’mo.”
“Of course you do,” I snap, folding my arms across my chest. “Or rather, you stand with his wife, because that’s where all the prophecy shit comes from.”
“Not just his wife, Your Majesty,” Lord Bruz says. “More people believe in the prophecies than you may understand. There’s been… more attention on them in recent years.”
“So much attention, the Lords and Ladies are ready to fulfill the one they fear? Plunge a kingdom full of orcs who have never known war into the middle of one,” I sigh, rubbing my brow beneath my crown.
It suddenly feels heavier. “If Uzrirgard falls after I’m gone, that’s their fault, not mine.
I won the war that ensured there should never be another one. ”
“There are still solutions, Your Majesty. A way to stop everything. All you have to do is-” he begins and I silence him by standing up.
“No,” I throw the word across the room. “Not again. Never again.”
“If you’d just-” he tries.
“Out,” I thunder, pointing toward the door. “Tell the cowards who decided you would be the one to face me with this that they shouldn’t bother wasting fuel, their breath, or my time. I will not have this conversation again.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he squeaks, backpedaling. “My apologies.”
I’m in an extremely foul mood once he’s gone. The kind I usually only quell with grog. But that’s made me weak. Even before Clover, I let it cloud my judgment some nights.
“These fucking fools,” I say, shaking my head.
I’ve given them everything. My life. My blood.
I led them on the battlefield while my wife died in our bed, praying to the Twelve Gods that I’d make it back before she was gone.
A prayer that went unanswered. All those years, and I failed her when she needed me most. And it wasn’t the first time I’d failed her. It was just the last time.
I shake the thoughts out of my head. Those aren’t the only ones I need to rattle loose. I’ve got to stop thinking about Clover, too. Stop thinking about her hand on me. Her lips tasting me. Her smile when I walk into the library, like I’m not the monster from all the old books she’s read.
I can put her somewhere else. One of the empty wings. A real bed. A locked door, if that’s what it takes. Distance would solve this. Distance would make me myself again.
But I can’t do that yet. I said I was going to taste her. There may not be much of me left, but I’m still an orc of my word.
It’s a good thing it’s never too early for grog.