Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
He hadn't expected this.
To take her away. The Queen of Maidan. A human—fragile, weak, already shivering against his shoulder in the night air. She was smaller than he'd imagined, lighter, too easily broken.
And yet…
She had stared at him with such fierceness when his blade had hovered at her throat.
She hadn't begged. She hadn't wept or pleaded for her life. She hadn't cowered like so many before her.
It unsettled him. This wasn't how humans were supposed to act when facing death. He had seen countless men—warriors, generals, kings—break before his blade. Yet she had shown a composure that rivaled the most seasoned orc warriors. A part of him—a part he quickly silenced—almost admired it.
Instead… she had spoken. Revealed her one and only bargaining chip, risking everything on a gamble. It had been desperation, yes—but desperation sharpened by cunning. And what she'd said…
The Ketheri.
Their reinforcements were coming. And to deal with them, better that she live. Alive, she might prevent the firestorm her death would unleash. Alive, she was leverage.
Kardoc would disagree. His brother saw only blood, only the simple truths of violence and strength. To Kardoc, a blade was the answer to every question.
His father would be angry too—at first. Draak Karthan had demanded her death, had ordered Rakhal to spill her blood and end this war with a single stroke. But anger passed, and anger could be reasoned with. His father was many things, but he was not a fool.
Kardoc, though—never.
Rakhal's gaze stayed forward, his strides long and steady along the pale stone road. He had always seen what others couldn't. Had always been able to anticipate several steps ahead, to look past the immediate moment into the shape of what might come.
That was what the shadows had taught him. To listen. To be still. To think where others rushed. To dance along the edges of possibilities, finding openings where there seemed to be none.
And now… this woman. This queen. She was no longer a target. She was a piece on the board.
The Ketheri were coming.
And he had a plan.
Abruptly, he veered from the road, boots striking the frozen earth as he cut toward the open plains.
The land stretched wide, lit by scattered fires in the distance—his clan's encampments, their watchfires burning like stars across the dark.
The winter-hardened grass crackled beneath his feet, the wind carrying scents that no human could detect—the musk of sleeping animals, the distant smoke of orcish forges working through the night, the metallic tang of weapons being honed.
Familiar scents drifted to him even through the mask: smoke, blood, leather, the tang of steel. Home.
On his shoulder, she shivered violently. Her thin nightgown was no match for the night's breath, and her trembling grew with every stride. The gag muffled her, silenced her, but he could feel the small quakes of her body against him.
He ran on, tireless, until the last trace of walls and torches vanished behind them. No guards. No watchful eyes. Only the empty night and the vast hush of the plains.
When he was certain no ears could hear, no eyes could see, he slowed. His stride steadied, then ceased altogether.
In one smooth motion, he lowered her from his shoulder and set her on her feet.
He only watched her.
She swayed as he set her down, knees buckling beneath her, the bindings at her ankles forcing her into a clumsy stagger. Her arms jerked uselessly against the ropes at her back, balance nearly lost to the cold stone beneath her bare feet.
But she did not fall.
Eventually, she steadied herself. Straightened. And in spite of the night air cutting through her thin gown, in spite of the wind whipping her hair wild, in spite of her silence and helplessness, she lifted her chin and glared at him. Fierce. Unyielding.
Rakhal held her gaze, letting the moment stretch. Then he exhaled, long and low, and finally allowed the shadows to recede.
They slithered back into the dark, leaving him bare to the cold. His anakara was drained, his limbs heavy, weariness settling deep in his bones. That veil of silence he had held—longer than ever before, long enough to smother not just himself but her as well—had cost him dearly.
He couldn't remember a time he had carried the shadows that far, that long.
And he was spent.
Not that she would know.
He studied her.
The night pressed around them, sharp and cold, yet she stood before him as though the wind were nothing. Her arms were bound, her ankles lashed tight, her mouth gagged—yet her spine was straight, her chin high. Defiance clung to her like armor.
Her eyes caught his first. Blue. He had noticed it before, in the chamber, but now the hue struck him again. A strange color. A human color. Clear and cutting, like ice lit by flame.
Her hair whipped about her face in the wind, dark as midnight, loose and wild. The strands lashed across her cheeks, but she didn't flinch, didn't bow her head. She stared at him, unblinking, waiting. Expectant.
She knew.
She had known from the moment she risked speaking of the Ketheri what she had given herself up to. Known what she was doing when she played her one card. And still she had chosen to gamble.
Even here, with ropes at her wrists and shadows at her throat, she met him with that same strange certainty.
He was the one in control. His hand, his strength, his shadows had bound her, silenced her, carried her from her kingdom. And yet—
There was something in her bearing, in the fire behind those human eyes, that gave the illusion she had not lost everything.
As though she, too, still held a measure of control.
He moved toward her slowly, each step deliberate, heavy against the earth.
She didn't flinch. Didn't cower. She stood motionless, bound and gagged, but her gaze never wavered. Her eyes followed him, clear and sharp, as if daring him to come closer.
When he reached her, he looked down and realized just how small she truly was. Smaller than he'd imagined from the battlefield, from the throne. The top of her head barely reached his chest. Fragile bones. Slender limbs. So easily broken.
But no less defiant. No less brave.
He should have despised her for it. Should have wanted to grind her beneath his boots, to crush the life from her as payment for the countless orcish dead that had bled into the earth because of her. The fire her mages had rained. The sons his clan had buried.
Yet… he couldn't.
Not now. Not in this moment, when she stood so weak before him, shivering in the night wind yet still meeting his gaze without fear.
And then—unexpected, unbidden—something stirred in him.
A thought he hadn't invited, a word he had never imagined attaching to a human.
So alluring.
He crushed the thought, buried it deep where it could not touch him. Foolish. Dangerous.
With a rough motion he reached for the knot at the back of her head. The gag pulled tight between her lips, the cloth damp from her breath. His claws worked the rope loose, and then he drew the wad of linen from her mouth.
He expected the rush to come immediately—the curses, the venom, the screams she'd surely been holding back. Perhaps even a desperate attempt to spit in his face.
But nothing came.
She was silent.
The cold night wind caught her hair, tossed it wild across her face, but she did not speak, did not waste the moment. She simply stood there, bound and unbroken, her eyes steady on his.
And that silence spoke more than any words could. It was restraint. It was self-control sharper than steel.
She was waiting.
For him.
At last, he spoke.
"You're wondering what will happen to you," he said quietly, his voice low, cutting through the wind like a blade.
She shivered, a tremor rippling through her body in the thin nightgown. But she didn't answer. Didn't nod. Didn't lower her gaze.
Her silence was its own weapon—more powerful than words.
Rakhal studied her in the moonlight, the flicker of emotion breaking through her control for only an instant.
Fear, raw and human, flashed in her eyes.
But it was gone almost as quickly as he caught it, smothered by sheer will.
By the same iron strength that had steadied her on the battlefield, the same that now held her together in ropes and shadows.
Impressive.
He let the thought linger a moment, then drew in a slow breath, the mask over his face shifting with it.
His gaze narrowed, the shadows stirring faintly at his shoulders.
"You're mine now," he declared, his voice low but edged with iron. The words seemed to settle in the cold air between them, unshakable, undeniable.
Her eyes widened just slightly, but she didn't flinch, didn't look away.
"None in the Varak stronghold will touch you," he went on, the promise a growl beneath his mask. "But if you want to live, you will do exactly as I command."
The wind whipped around them, carrying his words into the dark. Bound and shivering, she stood silent, but he could feel the weight of her defiance, as sharp and present as the fear she buried deep.
"And what, exactly, do you demand of me?"
At last, she spoke. Her voice was muffled by the cold, raw from the gag's bite, but her tone was smooth, steady, sure. It caught him off guard. Again.
Rakhal had never seen a human with such composure. Then again, he had never stood this close to one—not like this.
"You will…" He let the silence stretch, savoring the weight of it, "…marry a prince of the Varak."
The words hung there, stark and unyielding.
Even to his own ears, they sounded strange.
Such unions were rare among his people—viewed with suspicion, even revulsion by most clans.
The elders spoke of such marriages in hushed tones—necessary sacrifices for the survival of the clan. Yet now, he was proposing exactly that.
Her eyes widened. Her lips parted in disbelief, a sharp breath spilling into the night.
Before she could speak, he continued, his tone flat, resolute.
"A symbolic union. An alliance between orcs and humans. A way to end this war once and for all."
The wind tore between them, cold and sharp, but Rakhal didn't look away. He watched her closely, measuring the storm building in her gaze.
A laugh escaped her, sudden and sharp, breaking the silence. It was harsh, cold, filled with a dark amusement that didn't reach her eyes.
"A sure way to ward off the Ketheri," she said, her tone laced with mockery. Her breath misted in the frigid air, and still she held his gaze. "And if I refuse? If I would rather die?"
Rakhal didn't flinch. He didn't soften.
"Then you die," he answered simply, his voice low and steady. "And we burn Istrial to the ground. Many will die… on both sides."
The words struck with the finality of a blade.
The wind whipped harder around them, tugging at her hair, her gown, the ropes that bound her. She stood rooted in place, bound but unbowed, staring up at the towering shadow before her.
She drew in a deep breath, her chest rising shakily against the ropes. The shivering grew worse, her legs quivering beneath her. In the pale light of the moon he saw her lips darken, the blush of living warmth giving way to blue. She looked as though she might collapse at any moment.
Enough, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, one he seldom heard. She's had enough.
No. Wait.
He needed her submission. Needed to hear it.
"Very well," she said at last, her voice steady despite the trembling of her body. "I'll consent to this union."
Rakhal chuckled darkly, the sound rumbling low from behind his mask. As if she had any choice. Death or marriage—the worst options possible. Yet she made it sound like her decision. Clever, defiant, even now.
He nodded once. Then, finally, he relented. With a rough motion, he tugged his shirt free and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, binding it close against her. An extra layer, at least.
The impulse disturbed him. He had killed countless humans without hesitation.
Had watched them bleed into the dust without remorse.
Yet here he was, concerned for this woman's comfort.
Was it merely that he needed her alive? Or was there something more—something he didn't want to examine too closely?
Her eyes widened in surprise, glinting in the moonlight.
"If you don't want to be gagged again, you'll stay silent," he told her, his tone flat, uncompromising. "Not that it matters here. There's nobody to hear you but the wind."
"I won't scream," she answered curtly, her tone businesslike, almost dismissive. "If that's what you're worried about."
He snorted, cinching the shirt tighter around her before bending to lift her once more. "You already know it's futile. When we reach the Stronghold, don't make a sound. Not a word until I tell you otherwise."
She nodded sharply, the gesture laced with sarcasm. "Anything else, o mighty orc? Should I grovel? Or lower my eyes demurely?"
He shook his head, almost amused despite himself, though his reply was edged with darkness. "Don't give me ideas."
Her body was trembling when he slung her back over his shoulder. Trembling, but warmer now, pressed against him.
And it struck him—strange, unwelcome—that he would rather not see her shiver. That he would rather see her warm.
What a strange thought.
The shadow-sickness was beginning to pulse beneath his skin, a dull burn spreading through his veins.
By morning, it would be worse—fever, aching muscles, the price of his extended use of anakara.
But that was a concern for later. For now, there was only the journey ahead and the weight of the queen against him.
Soon.
Rakhal adjusted his hold on her, muscles coiling, and then broke into a run, carrying her deeper into the night.