Chapter 3 #2
And at the far end, elevated on a dais, sits the high table.
Vlorn is there. On his black iron throne. Two wolves sleep at his feet—massive beasts with silver-gray fur and teeth the size of my fingers. One lifts its head as I enter, amber eyes tracking my movement.
Conversations falter as I enter. Dozens of eyes turn toward me. The only human among predators.
I’m the entertainment tonight.
The guards march me down the center aisle. Every step echoes against the stone. Every eye tracks my progress. I hear the scrape of plates stopping mid-meal. The thud of cups hitting tables. The rustle of warriors turning in their seats to watch.
The smell of food intensifies—roasted meat dripping with fat, fresh bread, root vegetables swimming in butter and herbs. My mouth waters traitorously.
We reach the dais, and the guards stop. One of them nudges me forward.
My feet refuse to move for a heartbeat.
Vlorn doesn’t rise. Doesn’t acknowledge me until I’m standing directly before the dais. Then his golden eyes lift and pin me in place.
He gestures to a smaller chair beside his throne—carved wood, not iron, but still impressive. Elevated above the rest of the hall but clearly subordinate to his seat.
The message is clear: I belong to him. On display.
I climb the dais steps because refusing would cause a scene, but I perch on the edge of the chair, ready to bolt if needed.
Vlorn’s presence beside me is overwhelming—his size dwarfs my chair, his heat radiates even across the space between us. The weight of his attention presses down on my shoulders.
The hall watches. Waiting to see what happens next.
Servants bring food—massive platters of spiced boar, thick dark bread still steaming, roasted root vegetables glistening with fat. They set a plate in front of me and one in front of Vlorn.
The smell hits me so hard, my vision blurs slightly. Rich meat, sharp spices, yeast from the bread. My body screams for food. My hands shake with the effort of not reaching for it.
But I cross my arms over my chest and refuse to touch the plate.
Refuse to even look at it.
Instead, I stare straight ahead, teeth clenched, ignoring everything.
Laughter ripples through the hall. Some warriors mock my stubbornness. Others watch with interest to see how their warlord handles this public insult.
Vlorn says nothing.
He just eats his own meal slowly, deliberately. Tearing meat from bone with his hands. Chewing. Watching me with those unblinking golden eyes the entire time.
Letting the silence stretch.
Letting the tension build.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Sweat beads at my temples despite my determination.
Don’t give in. Don’t let him win.
Minutes pass. Or maybe just seconds. Time warps under that stare.
Around us, other orcs eat and drink. Conversations resume at a lower volume. But all eyes keep flicking back to the high table. To me.
Then he moves.
He tears a strip of meat from his plate—boar, still dripping with juice and spices—and holds it out to me.
One word. “Eat.”
His voice is low. Commanding. A rumble that travels through the floor and up into my bones.
I shake my head, refusing to even look at the offered food.
He leans closer.
So close his scent surrounds me completely. Leather and smoke and wolf musk and something underneath that’s purely him. Something primal that makes my breath catch despite every instinct screaming at me to pull away.
He presses the meat to my lips. Holding it there. Waiting.
His thumb grazes my lower lip in a deliberate brush. Rough callus against soft skin.
Heat floods through my stomach and lower. Traitorous body responding to the touch, to the proximity, to the dominance radiating off him.
I hate it.
Hate that my skin flushes. Hate that my pulse jumps. Hate that some part of me wants to lean into that touch instead of away from it.
I slap his hand away hard.
The meat falls to the floor with a wet thud.
The hall goes silent.
Complete. Suffocating. Silence.
My cheeks burn—half fury, half shame at my body’s betrayal.
Vlorn doesn’t retaliate.
Doesn’t even look angry.
Instead, his mouth curves into a slow grin. All teeth and challenge and dark amusement.
He sits back in his throne and announces to the hall, voice carrying to every corner: “The human has teeth.”
Some warriors pound fists against the tables in approval. They respect defiance, even from prey.
Others scowl deeply, insulted that I dare refuse their lord so openly.
Three tables down, I spot a massive orc with bone ornaments woven into his hair and tusks sharpened to vicious points. He’s staring at me with open disgust and something darker. Calculation.
He leans toward the orc beside him—tall and lean with cold eyes—and mutters something that makes the other nod grimly.
A chill runs down my spine.
Enemies. Mark them.
Vlorn seems to feed on the chaos his words created. His eyes are bright with something that might be amusement or hunger or both.
He lets the noise rise for a moment, then silences it with a raised hand.
Then he leans close to me. Close enough that his breath stirs my hair. Close enough that I sense his heat down my entire side.
His voice drops to a rumble that only I can hear.
“Eat next time, or I’ll feed you myself in ways you won’t enjoy. Do you understand me?”
It’s a threat wrapped in dark promise.
I want to spit in his face. Want to tell him to go to hell.
But my voice catches in my throat because some traitorous part of my body responds to that low rumble. To the proximity. To the sheer force of will pressing down on me.
Before I can force words out, he sits back and speaks louder, dismissing me.
“Take her back to her chamber.”
The guards move forward immediately.
I stand on shaking legs, but I keep my chin high and let them escort me toward the doors.
I sense Vlorn’s eyes on my back the entire walk across the hall.
Burning. Assessing. Claiming.
The door locks behind me with a heavy click.
I’m alone again.
Finally.
I lean against the door and let myself breathe.
My hands are shaking. My legs threaten to give out. My stomach is still cramping with hunger, but I ignore it.
Slapping his hand away felt right in the moment. Necessary. Mine.
But now, alone, the weight of everything crashes down on me.
I’m a prisoner in a fortress full of warriors who either hate me or want to use me. I’m bound by iron to a warlord who could crush my skull with one hand but instead plays games that make my skin flush and my stomach flip.
My family in Red Hollow probably thinking I’m already dead.
My village let me go without a fight.
My future is a black void I can’t see past tomorrow.
Tears sting my eyes. Hot and unwelcome.
I bite them back viciously. Refuse to let them fall. Press my palms against my eyes until I see stars.
I will survive this. I will find a way out.
But tonight, alone in the wolf’s cage, the words ring hollow.
Tonight, I let myself slide down the door until I’m sitting on the cold stone floor, arms wrapped around my knees.
The scent of smoke drifts through the window—it smells like my mother’s bakery. Like Saturday mornings when she’d let me help knead the dough before opening. My father would come in smelling of leather from the tannery down the road, and we’d eat fresh bread together while it was still warm.
The memory hits so hard, I have to bite my lip to keep from sobbing.
They’re gone. That life is gone. Everything I knew is gone.
I sit there for a long time—minutes or hours, I don’t know—before I finally drag myself to the bed and curl on top of the furs, still fully dressed. I pull the sewing awl from under the pillow and grip it in my fist.
My only weapon.
My only comfort.
I close my eyes and try to sleep, but every sound makes me jump. The wind howling outside. The wolves baying in the distance. The guards shifting positions outside my door.
Their voices continue in low conversation—unchanged, steady.
Then: different footsteps.
Soft. Deliberate. Moving down the corridor toward my chamber but trying to be quiet about it.
My eyes snap open.
The footsteps stop outside my door.
The guards’ voices continue at the same volume. They don’t react. Don’t call out. Don’t challenge whoever just approached.
Ice floods my veins.
The handle rattles. Slow. Testing. Seeing if it’s locked.
It is.
But someone is trying to get in.
I slide off the bed silently, awl gripped so hard, my knuckles go white.
The guards are still talking at the end of the hall—I hear their low voices, unconcerned, as if nothing is happening.
They know someone’s at my door.
They’re letting it happen.
The handle rattles again. More insistent this time.
I move closer to the door and press my ear against the wood.
Breathing. Heavy. Deliberate. On the other side.
Then a low scrape. Metal on iron. A blade being drawn and dragged down the door in a slow, deliberate scratch.
A muttered curse in orcish. Male voice. Deep. Frustrated.
The footsteps retreat quickly. Moving back down the corridor.
Gone.
I stand frozen, awl clutched in my fist, staring at the door.
The guards’ conversation continues unchanged. They didn’t stop whoever that was. Didn’t even pretend to notice.
Who was that? And why are the guards helping them?
I move back to the bed but I don’t lie down. I sit with my back against the headboard, awl in my lap, and keep my eyes on the door.
Sleep doesn’t come.