Chapter 3
THREE
ZORAYA
The lock clicks.
His footsteps fade down the corridor—heavy, measured, the sound of a predator that knows nothing can challenge it.
I wait until the sound disappears completely before I move.
The chamber is mine now. Prison or sanctuary, I’m not sure which. Maybe both.
I push away from the door and survey the space with fresh eyes.
The bed dominates the room—massive and piled with furs that look soft but probably reek of whatever animal they came from.
A trunk sits at the foot of it, dark wood banded with iron.
A chair near the fireplace. A small table. A washbasin. The barred windows.
And the door with its heavy lock and guards posted outside.
I move to the windows first, testing the bars with both hands. The ceremonial shackles around my wrists clink softly against the iron. The bars don’t budge. Not even a little. They’re set deep into the stone, and the gaps between them are too narrow for even my shoulders to fit through.
I peer out anyway.
The drop is exactly what he said—a hundred feet straight down to jagged rocks jutting from the mountainside. No ledges. No handholds. No way down that doesn’t end with me splattered across stone.
Not the windows.
I turn to the door next. Press my ear against the thick wood and listen.
The guards are talking in low voices. Four of them, judging by the different tones. One is telling a story about a raid. Another laughs. They’re not worried about me. Why would they be? I’m one human girl with a sewing awl against an entire fortress of orc warriors.
The odds are not in my favor.
I step back and examine the hinges. Outside the room, which means I can’t get at them. The lock is heavy iron, probably needs a key the size of my hand.
Not the door either. Not yet.
I move to the trunk and flip it open.
Clothes. Dresses in dark colors—black, deep red, forest green. All rough-spun silk that’s decent quality but nothing fancy. The kind of thing a warlord’s servant would wear. Or his captive.
I pull out the black one and hold it up. It would fit. Probably. Someone took my measurements or made a good guess.
The thought makes my skin crawl.
I shove it back in the trunk and dig deeper. More dresses. A woolen cloak. Undergarments. And at the very bottom, wrapped in cloth, a sewing kit.
My hands freeze on it.
I lift it out carefully and unwrap the cloth. Thread in various colors. Needles in different sizes. A small pair of shears. A thimble. Everything a seamstress would need for basic work.
Everything I would need.
Why?
The answer is obvious. He wants me to sew. To prove I’m useful. To earn my keep or whatever bullshit justification he’s using.
I rewrap the kit and shove it back to the bottom of the trunk. Then I pull out my sewing awl from where I tucked it in my skirt pocket and hide it under the pillow instead.
The only weapon I have. Not much, but better than nothing.
I sit on the edge of the bed and finally let myself think.
What the hell am I going to do?
The ceremonial shackles around my wrists catch the firelight, the wolf-head runes glowing silver against black iron. Permanent markers of ownership.
I tried pulling at them earlier, in the corridor. They’re locked tight, but they don’t cause pain when I struggle. No magical punishment for resistance—just the physical reality that I can’t remove them without tools I don’t have.
Which means running is theoretically possible. If I can find a way past the guards, past the maze of corridors, past the fortress walls. If I can somehow get tools to remove these shackles.
But first, I need to survive long enough to figure out how.
A knock at the door makes me jump.
“What?” I call out, harsher than intended.
The door opens, and an orc woman enters. She’s older—maybe fifty, maybe older, hard to tell with orcs—with scars crossing half her face and kind eyes that seem out of place in this brutal fortress.
She carries a basket and moves carefully, each step measured.
“Easy now.” Voice low and calm. “Not here to hurt you.”
“I didn’t ask for anything.”
“The clan lord did.” She sets the basket on the table and steps back, giving me space. “Name’s Brakka. I tend the high tower chambers.”
My feet won’t move. “What’s in the basket?”
“See for yourself.”
I stand slowly and approach the table, keeping Brakka in my peripheral vision. She doesn’t seem threatening, but I’m not taking chances.
The basket is full of fabric. I pull out the first piece—a torn banner, black silk with silver thread. The wolf sigil partially ripped away. Bloodstains along one edge.
I pull out another. Same thing. Torn, bloodied, damaged.
There are at least a dozen of them.
“Clan banners,” Brakka says quietly. “From the last skirmish with Oryx’s forces. The clan lord wants them mended.”
I look at her sharply. “He wants me to mend battle flags?”
“To prove your skill.” She shifts her weight, uncomfortable. “He needs to know you’re worth keeping.”
The words land heavy.
Worth keeping.
A tool. A possession. Something to be evaluated and discarded if I don’t measure up.
Rage floods through me, hot and immediate.
I shove the basket back across the table toward Brakka. “Tell your Iron Warlord I don’t stitch for dogs.”
Brakka’s eyes widen. Her scarred face goes pale. “Girl, you can’t—you don’t speak of the clan lord that way. Not if you want to keep breathing.”
“Then I guess I won’t breathe long.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Take the basket and get out.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Then she picks up the basket slowly, carefully, watching me the whole time.
“You got fire in you,” she says quietly. “Fire’s good. Fire keeps you breathin’ in this place.” She pauses at the door. “But fire also gets you burned. Be careful which battles you pick, girl.”
Then she’s gone, and I’m alone again.
I sink back onto the bed and press my palms against my eyes.
What the hell am I doing?
Antagonizing him won’t keep me alive. Won’t get me out of here. But I can’t just roll over and obey either. Can’t let him break me into something compliant and useful.
There has to be a middle ground. Some way to survive without losing myself.
I just haven’t figured out what that looks like yet.
Sunlight shifts from afternoon gold to amber. The shadows lengthen across the floor, creeping up the walls. My stomach cramps with hunger—I haven’t eaten since yesterday’s breakfast in Red Hollow.
Yesterday. Was it only yesterday?
Feels like a lifetime ago.
A knock at the door jerks me out of my thoughts.
Brakka again. She looks nervous this time, wringing her hands.
“What now?”
“The clan lord requests your presence at dinner.” She says it quickly. “In the Great Hall. Now.”
I laugh. Can’t help it. The sound comes out sharp and bitter. “Requests?”
“Commands,” she corrects quietly. “He commands your presence.”
“Well, you can tell him I’m not hungry.”
“Girl—”
“I’m not going.”
Brakka steps farther into the room, closing the door behind her.
Her expression shifts from nervous to almost pleading.
“Please. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.
The clan lord doesn’t accept refusals. You come willingly, or the guards drag you.
And if they have to drag you...” She trails off, but I understand the implication.
It won’t be gentle.
I weigh my options. I could fight. Could force them to drag me kicking and screaming through the fortress. Make a scene. Prove I can’t be controlled.
But the shackles would make fighting difficult, and I’d arrive at dinner bruised and humiliated, having wasted my strength on a battle I can’t win.
Better to conserve my energy. Learn the lay of the land. Pick my battles more carefully.
“Fine.” I stand and smooth my skirt—still the same dirt-stained dress from the market. “But I’m not changing clothes.”
Relief floods Brakka’s face. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m only going because the alternative is worse.”
She nods and opens the door. Two guards wait outside, both massive and armed to the teeth.
They flank me as we walk. I feel how their shadows swallow mine. How easily they could crush me.
But I keep my spine straight and my shoulders back.
The corridors are busier now than they were earlier. Warriors move through the passages in groups, heading toward what I assume is dinner. Servants carry platters and jugs. The air grows thick with smoke and roasted meat—the smell makes my empty stomach clench so hard, I nearly stumble.
Every orc we pass stares.
Some openly, eyes tracking me with predator focus. Others from the corners of their eyes, quick glances they think I don’t notice.
The whispers start immediately.
“The human.”
“The bride.”
“Iron Warlord’s pet.”
“Curse on the clan.”
One warrior—massive thing with tusks sharpened to points—spits as I pass. The glob of saliva hits the stone inches from my feet.
My hands fist at my sides, but I don’t react. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
Another orc, younger with uncertain eyes, looks away quickly when I meet his gaze.
I memorize every face. Every sneer. Every scowl. Cataloguing allies and enemies.
Though so far, the enemy list is significantly longer.
We turn a corner, and the noise hits me first.
Dozens of conversations bleeding together into a wall of sound. Laughter. The clatter of plates and cups. Voices raised in argument or jest.
Then we reach the doors.
Two warriors stand guard, both gripping spears. They nod to my escort and push the massive doors open.
The Great Hall is enormous.
Long tables stretch the length of the room, packed with orcs feasting on roasted boar and dark ale.
Torches burn in wolf-head sconces mounted along the walls, casting everything in amber light that flickers and dances.
Banners hang from the rafters—clan symbols I don’t recognize.
Fire pits burn at intervals, and the heat from them combines with body heat to make the air thick and stifling.