Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
Something had pressed down on her.
Heavy. Suffocating. A weight that slithered through her dreams and dragged her up from their depths. The air thickened around her, cold and dense with a darkness that felt alive. Her heart stuttered in her chest before she even understood why.
Her eyes snapped open to find herself staring straight into terror.
Above her hovered a pair of eyes, cold and merciless, glowing with a luminous blue that pierced the shadows like frost-lit fire. They belonged to a figure cloaked in darkness, with shadows writhing around him as though they were alive, feeding on his presence, bending to his will.
The mask had hidden his face, carved and cruel, but not enough to conceal the aura of death that clung to him. Black hair had spilled loose, catching faintly in the lamplight, though the shadows had devoured most of it.
Relentless. Unyielding. Death incarnate.
Every breath she had drawn had scraped her lungs raw, the air thick as tar. The edge of steel had lain cool against her throat, the pressure slight but absolute. She hadn't dared to swallow.
The nightmare had been real.
A shadow orc, she'd realised, cold horror gnawing at her, rendering her unable to speak, to move.
Not just any orc—a particularly deadly one. One of the creatures whispered about in fearful tones by soldiers who had seen too much of war. He had made it all the way here, through the wards, past the guards, right into her tower. Into her chamber. To her very bedside.
She had stared death in the face.
The glowing eyes. The dagger at her throat. The shadows writhing like serpents at his command. She had felt it all pressing down on her, crushing, inevitable.
And then—
She had caught it. A flicker. A sliver of something she hadn't expected.
Hesitation.
It had been there in the way the blade had lingered, poised but unmoving. In the weight of his gaze as he'd looked at her, unblinking, like a predator studying prey—but not striking. For a heartbeat, perhaps two, he had faltered.
It was the smallest crack in the armor of death. But she had seen it.
She'd tried to buy time.
Words had been her only weapon, and she had wielded them as best she could—truth spun into delaying tactics, her one and only trump card laid bare: the plan with the Ketheri. She should have stayed silent. Should have accepted death with dignity. But she hadn't. She had wanted to live.
She had to live.
Selfish, perhaps. But necessary. She couldn't allow one of her cousins to take the seat of power, to undo everything her father had built. This—this moment—had been the only way out.
And perhaps…
Futilely, she'd reached for her dagger. The one hidden beneath her pillow, the one comfort she had kept close even here in her own tower.
But he had caught her. Effortless, merciless.
His grip had closed around her wrist, iron-strong, crushing until she had gasped in pain.
He had taken the weapon from her as easily as one might disarm a child.
The message had been clear: she was no match for him.
Not in strength. Not in speed. If he had wished it, he could have crushed her bones in his bare hands.
And then… there had been the shadows.
They had writhed around him, alive and hungry, pressing close as though they longed to pour themselves into her lungs and suffocate her where she lay. They had answered to him as though he were their master, their vessel.
Death made flesh.
If you want to live, then you will not resist.
The words echoed in her skull, cold and final, as though they had been carved into stone.
Eliza drew in a careful breath. The blade was still close, his grip still iron, the shadows still curling at the edges of her vision like smoke. Every instinct in her screamed to speak, to fight, to lash out with something. But not now. Not when his strength so easily eclipsed hers.
So she kept her mouth shut.
And she nodded.
The smallest dip of her chin, slow and measured, never breaking eye contact. A gesture of compliance—but not surrender.
She gasped when the blade finally lifted from her throat. The cold edge left her skin, but the memory of it lingered, sharp and burning.
Silence weighed thick and heavy between them, a suffocating blanket that seemed to merge with the shadows writhing around him. They curled and shifted like living things, whispering against the stone, feeding off the fear that gripped her chest.
Eliza's pulse hammered, though she forced herself to keep still, to study him through the haze of terror.
He was clad in black from throat to boots, armor muted to shadow, every line of him built for stealth and death. His face was hidden behind a mask, yet his form betrayed enough: broad shoulders, corded muscle, a frame that dwarfed her bed, her chamber, the very air. He was massive.
All orc.
Long black hair spilled loose, brushing his shoulders, shifting faintly as the shadows stirred around him. His eyes glowed through the slits of his mask, luminous blue—dangerous, unnatural. Power radiated from them, the mark of his magic, his strength.
An utterly terrifying being.
And then he moved.
Swiftly. Precisely. His hand went to his waist, pulling free a coil of rope. The shadows seemed to shiver in approval as the length unfurled, heavy and deliberate in his grasp.
Fear clawed at her chest, threatening to choke her, but she forced herself to stay still.
Every instinct screamed at her to fight, to thrash, to run—but reason burned colder in her mind.
It was obvious what he meant to do. Bind her.
Claim her as his captive. And however degrading that was, it was still better than death.
"Roll over," he commanded, voice harsh as gravel. "Onto your stomach."
She considered resisting. She thought of clawing, of screaming, of one last desperate attempt.
But the memory of his strength silenced the thought.
The crushing grip on her wrist. The shadows writhing at his call.
He could kill her before she drew a single breath to cry out. Resisting would be suicide.
So she rolled over, slow and deliberate, the furs sliding with her, cocooning her for one last heartbeat of concealment.
And then—
He whipped the covers back in a single, ruthless motion. The night air struck her skin, cold against her bare arms and through the thin fabric of her nightgown. She stiffened, suddenly aware of how vulnerable she was in her sleeping attire, biting down against the instinct to cover herself.
The rope rasped as he looped it around her wrists behind her back. Rough, unyielding. His hands were efficient, merciless, pulling the bindings tight until the fibers dug into her skin. Each tug stole more of her freedom, each knot tied with a finality that sent her pulse racing.
She clenched her jaw, swallowing her fear, refusing to make a sound.
His hands moved swiftly, efficient and unrelenting.
The rope wound higher, binding her arms all the way up to the elbows until she could scarcely twitch her fingers.
The pressure bit into her flesh, locking her limbs in place.
When he was satisfied, he severed the rope with a clawed edge, the fibers snapping with a dull hiss.
Then he gripped her ankles. In moments, those too were bound tight, the coarse strands digging against her skin, leaving her utterly powerless.
Thoughts rushed through her mind, a torrent she could barely contain. She had no idea what he was going to do with her. Would he keep her as his own? Drag her into some dungeon to be tortured until she broke? Use her as a pawn—bait for the orcs to negotiate against her people?
Perhaps it would have been better if she had just accepted death.
No.
The initial panic receded just enough for her mind to clear, for the queen in her to assert control over the terrified woman. She was still alive, which meant she still had options. At least alive, she could use her tongue. She could scheme, persuade, manipulate—if they let her.
The thought had barely formed when she heard it: a sharp rip.
The sheets.
Her eyes widened just before he stuffed a wad of cloth between her lips, forcing her jaw open.
The taste of linen, dust, and iron flooded her mouth.
She gagged against it, but he was merciless, pressing it deep before knotting another strip around her head.
The rough gag bit into the corners of her mouth, cutting off even the chance of speech.
Now she was bound, mute, helpless.
Her breath came hot and fast through her nose, her chest heaving as panic threatened to overtake her.
But one thought hammered louder than all the others:
This is madness.
How was he going to get her out of here? Past the guards, over the walls, through the city itself?
Before she could wonder, could think, he leaned over and hauled her up as though she weighed nothing. In one brutal, fluid motion, she was lifted and thrown across his shoulders like a sack of grain.
The air rushed from her lungs with the sudden shift, her bound body pressed hard against the unyielding breadth of him. The movement was powerful, fluid, but utterly unceremonious—cold, practical, ruthless.
Eliza gasped through her gag, the sound muffled, strangled. She squirmed instinctively, but his grip locked her in place, a massive hand pinning her against him as he straightened to his full, towering height.
She couldn't help but be struck by it—by the sheer, terrifying effortlessness of it all. His strength was not the strained, grunting exertion of a man lifting beyond his means. It was casual, unthinking, as if her body weighed no more than a cloak thrown over his shoulder.
Orc strength. All of it.
The shadows curled eagerly around him as he moved toward the window.
To her shock, she could feel them.
The shadows.
They brushed against her bound arms and bare skin, sliding like cold snakes, writhing and coiling around her as though they too sought to claim her.
Terrifying. Alien. Yet... not wholly unpleasant.
They stroked over her senses with a strange familiarity, a whisper of something she couldn't name—like fingers of ice that somehow didn't burn with cold, but instead left trails of tingling awareness in their wake.
Her eyes widened as she watched them gather thick around him, wrapping his black-clad form in living darkness. The luminous blue of his eyes shone all the brighter through the veil. He almost seemed less a man and more a phantom—an outline fading, dissolving, becoming almost… invisible.
And then he moved.
With one hand he pushed the shutters wide, the hinges creaking softly as the cold night spilled in.
Eliza lifted her head as much as her bonds allowed and stared out at the world beyond: the vast darkness, the jagged silhouettes of towers, the pale gleam of the moon revealed from behind scudding clouds.
Her heart thundered.
Surely, you're not going to—
The words surged to her lips, but the gag smothered them, turning her cry into nothing but a muffled gasp. She couldn't speak. She couldn't do a thing.
He took a step, placing one boot on the ledge. The shadows shifted eagerly, curling around them both. And then, without hesitation, he moved over the threshold.
He jumped.
And Eliza, Queen of Maidan, bound and gagged and helpless, fell with him into the void.