Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Cold woke her.
Not the gentle chill of a drafty bedroom or forgotten blanket, but the bone-deep cold that came from sleeping on the ground in nothing but an oversized tunic and borrowed furs.
Thea’s eyes snapped open. Darkness pressed in from all sides—not the familiar darkness of her apartment with its ambient city glow bleeding through the curtains, but absolute, profound darkness broken only by a sliver of starlight through what appeared to be a tent opening.
Right. Not home. A different world where I’ve been kidnapped by an orc.
The thought should have sent her into panic. Part of her wanted to panic—that small, lizard-brain part that screamed danger and run and this isn’t real, this can’t be real—but panic was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
She pulled the furs tighter around her shoulders and tried to think logically—the way she’d been trained to approach problems that seemed insurmountable.
Step one: Assess the situation.
She was in a world that wasn’t her own. She’d been taken through what appeared to be some kind of interdimensional portal—because apparently those existed now, and wasn’t that going to revolutionize theoretical physics if she ever got home to tell anyone.
When, she corrected herself firmly. When I get home.
She’d been taken by an orc named Khorrek who seemed to be working for someone called… Lasseran? The name had been mentioned several times by both Khorrek and the humans, the same humans who looked at her like she was meat on a hook.
She shivered, and this time it wasn’t from the cold.
Step two: Identify resources.
She had her glasses. Thank god for that—without them, this world would be nothing but blurred shapes and constant headaches. She had Khorrek’s tunic, which at least provided some modesty even if it didn’t provide much warmth. She had furs, or at least borrowed furs. She had…
What else did she have?
Your mind, the professor’s voice echoed in her memory.
Dr. Yuki Tanaka, her advisor at Cambridge, who’d told her repeatedly that her greatest asset wasn’t her knowledge—it was her ability to acquire more knowledge.
You’re a linguistic prodigy, Thea. You don’t just learn languages, you deconstruct them.
That’s a skill that will serve you anywhere.
Hopefully even in another world. Khorrek had only taught her some simple nouns—rethka and thorak, fire and food—but they were building blocks. And then there were the words she thought she’d picked out of the conversation between the men, that strange feeling that she recognized the language.
She’d been studying language acquisition since her undergraduate years.
She knew the patterns, the common roots, and the way human brains processed phonemes and syntax.
This language had a structure and given a few days, she’d start picking up basic conversational phrases.
A week, and she’d be able to construct simple sentences. A month…
I don’t have a month.
The thought sliced through her analysis with horrifying certainty.
Whatever Khorrek was taking her to—whoever Lasseran was—it wasn’t going to end well.
The humans’ leering expressions. Khorrek’s carefully neutral face.
The way he’d positioned himself between her and the men as if he were guarding something valuable.
Or imprisoning it.
Step three: Form a plan.
Somehow she had to get home. That was her goal, and everything else was just tactics.
Which meant she needed to understand where she was, how she’d gotten here, and what those runes on the stone circle meant. She gave a frustrated sigh. She needed language and time to think without being thrown over someone’s shoulder every five minutes.
She needed…
A sound interrupted her spiraling thoughts, and she caught a hint of movement from the tent entrance.
She froze, staring desperately into the night as she picked out shapes in the darkness—the bulk of Khorrek’s pack and the massive silhouette blocking the tent opening. He was still there, guarding her.
The realization sent an odd flutter through her chest.
He shifted. Even in sleep—if he was sleeping—he radiated controlled violence, the kind of leashed power that spoke of a lifetime of combat training. But he’d given her his tunic and his furs. He’d taught her words when he could have ignored her and he’d put himself between her and the soldiers.
Why?
She didn’t have an answer, and not having answers made her deeply uncomfortable.
Another shiver ran through her. The furs were thick and well-made, but they couldn’t completely block the cold seeping up from the ground. Her feet felt like ice, and her hands weren’t much better.
She curled tighter into a ball, but it didn’t help. The cold was relentless, creeping into her bones, making her teeth chatter.
This is ridiculous. You’re going to freeze to death because you’re too stubborn to—
To what? Ask for help from her kidnapper? Admit she was cold and scared and completely out of her depth?
Pride’s going to kill you faster than hypothermia, her practical side noted. And you’re no good to anyone dead.
She looked at his silhouette again. He was maybe three feet away, sleeping—or pretending to sleep—against his pack with his back to her. And radiating heat like a furnace.
This is a terrible idea, she told herself as she slowly inched closer. But her alternatives were freezing or swallowing her pride, and pride wouldn’t keep her warm.
The furs dragged with her, rustling softly against the ground but he didn’t stir.
Maybe he actually is asleep.
She moved another few inches. Close enough now that she could smell him—the same oddly comforting scent from before. Leather and woodsmoke and something else, something wild and earthy.
Another inch. The heat radiating from his body was palpable now, a tangible warmth that her cold-numbed skin craved.
Just a little closer…
She stopped when she was near enough to feel his heat but not quite touching. She was close enough that if he moved in his sleep, he’d brush against her, but she was also close enough that her primitive hindbrain finally stopped screaming about freezing to death.
This is probably the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, she told herself. And you once tried to translate Linear A using nothing but cognates from Minoan pottery shards.
But she was warm, and with warmth came the exhaustion she’d been pushing away through sheer stubbornness.
Her eyelids grew heavy, and the tension in her shoulders eased.
She should stay alert. She should be planning her escape, analyzing the situation, and preparing for whatever came next.
Instead, she found herself drifting. The steady rise and fall of Khorrek’s breathing became a rhythm her own breath matched.
The warmth seeped into her bones, banishing the cold that had woken her.
Her last coherent thought was that he smelled like safety—which was absurd, because he was her captor, not her savior. But her hindbrain didn’t care about logic. It cared that she was warm and protected and, for this moment at least, safe.
She slept.
Morning arrived with the smell of smoke and the sound of voices speaking that strange guttural language. Her eyes cracked open. Daylight filtered through the tent opening—not bright, not direct sunlight, but the grey pre-dawn light that spoke of a sun not yet risen.
She was warm, warmer than she’d been since arriving in this world, and she was pressed against Khorrek’s side like a barnacle on a ship’s hull.
Oh no.
She must have moved closer in her sleep, or he had. Either way, she was now tucked against his ribs, her head resting on his arm, one of her hands fisted over his heart.
He was awake. She could tell by the tension in his body, the controlled quality of his breathing, but he hadn’t moved away.
This is mortifying.
She tried to ease back without making it obvious she was awake, hoping to extract herself with some dignity intact, and a large hand settled on her shoulder. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just… there.
Then his hand slid away from her shoulder, and cold air rushed in to fill the space where his warmth had been. He rose to his feet in a fluid motion that shouldn’t have been possible for someone his size.
“Vorak,” he told her, his voice stern but not harsh.
She sat up, pushing her hair out of her face, then did a quick search for her glasses. She found them where he must have placed them, within easy reach but out of danger, and slid them on.
The world snapped into focus.
He stood at the tent entrance, massive and imposing in the grey morning light. He gestured toward the outside, then made a motion she interpreted as eating, before repeating, “Vorak.”
Breakfast. He’s saying it’s time for breakfast.
Her stomach growled in response, but as she rose to her feet she became aware of a more pressing need. Damn. How the hell was she going to tell him she needed to relieve herself.
“Um. I need to…” Words failed her and she resorted to charades, pretending to squat as her cheeks flamed.
His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. Amusement? Concern? She wasn’t quite sure but he jerked his head towards the entrance.
Alrighty then.
Outside the tent, the camp was already awake. The three men were gathered around the fire, and their conversation stopped abruptly when she emerged.
The tall one—the one with the scar through his eyebrow—looked at her with an expression that made her skin crawl. He said something in that harsh language, and the other two laughed.
Khorrek growled.
It wasn’t a word. It wasn’t even a sound of displeasure.
He literally growled, like an animal warning off a threat. She decided she wasn’t going to examine too closely why that made her feel safer.
The laughter died. He waited a moment longer, then led her behind the tent. He pulled something out of one of the pouches on his belt and handed it to her.
A leaf?
“I don’t understand.”