Dark Orc

1. Serah

SERAH

The night I run is the kind that swallows sound whole.

My boots strike stone in a rhythm that's stopped making sense—left, right, stumble, catch myself before my knees crack open on the rocks.

The canyon stretches ahead like a throat, narrowing and widening without pattern, and I've lost track of how many hours I've been moving through it.

My body knows only forward. Forward means not back. Not back means not chains.

The knife wound in my side pulls with every breath, a hot line of fire that's spread its infection through my ribs like roots.

I can feel it when I press my palm there—the skin's wrong, too hot, swollen tight enough that touching it sends sparks behind my eyes.

The fabric of my stolen tunic sticks to the wound, and I stopped checking it after the second day when I saw the red streaks crawling up toward my armpit.

I should've cleaned it. Should've found clean water, used something other than the filthy rag I'd torn from a dead guard's shirt.

Should've done a lot of things.

The canyon walls rise on either side, jagged silhouettes against a sky that's more black than blue.

Stars scatter overhead in patterns I don't recognize, constellations that belong to this gods-forsaken world instead of the one my ancestors came from.

Not that it matters. I was born here. Raised here. Sold here.

My foot catches on a rock I don't see until I'm already falling, and I go down hard enough that my teeth crack together. The impact jars the wound and I bite down on the cry that wants to escape, swallowing it into something that sounds more like a wounded animal than a woman.

Can't make noise. The darkness is full of things that listen.

I push myself up on trembling arms, fingers scraping against stone that's still warm from the day's heat.

The desert had been worse—at least here there's shade during daylight, water that runs cold and clean through the riverbeds.

But the mountains felt safer than this. The mountains had trees, cover, places to hide that didn't echo every footstep back at you like a taunt.

This place is wrong.

The slave caravan had been heading south, away from the Orclands, when whatever attacked us came down from the cliffs.

I hadn't stopped to watch what did the killing—I'd just run when the chains broke and the screaming started.

Grabbed a knife from a guard whose throat had been opened ear to ear, took his waterskin and a piece of hard bread from his belt, and disappeared into the rocks before anyone noticed I was gone.

That was three days ago. Maybe four. Time slides around when fever takes hold.

I force myself upright, using the canyon wall as support. The stone feels rough under my palm, gritty with sand that the wind's blown in from the western desert. My legs shake but hold. That's something. As long as they hold, I keep moving.

The drum sound starts just after moonrise.

It's distant, rhythmic, coming from somewhere high above where the canyon walls meet the sky. Not one drum—several, their beats overlapping in patterns that feel deliberate. Ceremonial. My stomach clenches and I press myself flatter against the rock face, trying to become part of the shadow.

Orcs. Has to be.

The southern slavers had talked about them sometimes, their voices dropping low like speaking the name too loud would summon them.

Massive creatures who claimed these northern territories as their own, who raided human settlements and kept dark elf slaves in cages for sport.

They'd described them as monsters who wore bones as jewelry and ate their enemies' hearts.

I don't know what's true and what's myth meant to keep slaves compliant.

What I know is that the drums keep beating and something in my chest responds to the rhythm despite myself, pulse trying to match the cadence. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper.

Keep moving.

The riverbed appears after another hour of stumbling through narrow passages. I smell it before I see it—that clean mineral scent of running water over stone. My throat's so dry it hurts to swallow, tongue thick and useless in my mouth. The waterskin ran empty yesterday.

I half-slide down a steep embankment, catching myself on scrub brush that tears at my palms. Don't feel it. The fever's gotten bad enough that pain's starting to blur at the edges, turning distant and dreamy. My hands look like they belong to someone else when I hold them in front of my face.

The water runs shallow here, maybe ankle-deep, flowing over smooth stones that gleam in the starlight. I drop to my knees at the edge and plunge my hands in without checking first for parasites or poison or any of the thousand things that could kill me slower than thirst.

It's cold enough to hurt.

I drink until my stomach cramps, then splash water on my face and neck, gasping at the shock of it.

For a few seconds, the fever recedes and my head clears enough to think beyond the next step.

I'm somewhere in the northern territories.

The canyon system is massive—I could wander in here for weeks without finding a way out.

The infection in my side is spreading. I have no food, no real weapon, no plan beyond keeping my legs under me.

I'm going to die out here.

The thought should terrify me. Instead, it settles like relief. At least I'll die free.

A cry splits the night—something between a howl and a shriek that bounces off the canyon walls until it sounds like it's coming from everywhere at once.

I freeze, water dripping from my chin, every muscle locked.

The sound comes again, closer this time, and I recognize the hunting call of something with teeth.

My body moves before my brain catches up. I'm on my feet, running along the riverbank, boots splashing through the shallows because speed matters more than stealth now. Behind me, something crashes through the brush. Something big.

The canyon narrows ahead and I pour everything I have left into reaching it, legs burning, lungs screaming, the wound in my side tearing open fresh.

I feel hot blood soaking through the tunic but I don't stop, can't stop, because the thing behind me is gaining and I can hear its breath now, wet and rasping.

I don't make it to the narrows.

My legs simply stop working. One moment I'm running and the next I'm falling, body giving out all at once like puppet strings cut. I hit the ground and roll, coming to rest half in the water, staring up at the strip of sky visible between the canyon walls.

The stars blur. Multiply. Fade.

This is it then.

I think of my mother, dead before I turned seven. Wonder if she's waiting somewhere, or if death is just nothing. The stone under my back feels almost comfortable now, fever finally winning the fight for my attention. My eyes drift closed.

The hunting cry sounds again, much closer, but I can't make myself care.

Voices pull me back from the edge—deep, rough, speaking in a language I don't know. My eyelids weigh a thousand pounds but I force them open anyway, some animal part of my brain demanding I see what's about to kill me.

Firelight flickers orange against the canyon walls.

Torches, carried by figures that tower against the night sky.

Broad shoulders, massive builds, skin that looks dark even in the dim light.

As my vision swims in and out of focus, I catch details: leather armor studded with bone, thick braids, weapons that gleam like they're freshly sharpened.

Orcs.

Fear should flood my system. Should give me enough adrenaline to run again. But my body's done, finished, and all I can do is watch as they approach. One breaks away from the group, moving faster than something that size should be able to move.

The world tilts as I'm lifted, massive hands sliding under my shoulders and knees with surprising gentleness.

I'm cradled against a chest broad enough that my whole body fits against it, held like I weigh nothing.

The motion makes my head swim and I nearly black out again, clinging to consciousness by my fingernails.

Through the haze of fever, I force my eyes to focus on the face above me.

Amber eyes stare back, bright even in the darkness, set in features that are sharp and foreign. High cheekbones, a strong jaw, full lips pulled into something that might be concern. The gaze pins me in place, intense enough that I feel it even through the layers of delirium.

He's saying something, words in a rough tone I can't make out, but the tone sounds almost... worried?

Doesn't matter. Can't matter. I'm already slipping again, darkness pulling me under in waves. The last thing I register is warmth—his body heat soaking into mine, the firelight washing everything in gold, those amber eyes watching me like I'm something fragile that might shatter.

Then nothing.