Chapter 11 #2
Instead, hard, elegant features came into view.
His skin was grey, with the faintest green tinge, like stone tinted with moss.
His eyes were black, bottomless, unreadable.
A proud forehead, slashed by dark brows that angled sharply.
High cheekbones, a strong, cut jawline. A faint hollow to his cheeks gave him a lean, honed look—less brute, more blade.
And his mouth—
Full lips, shadowed by the jut of tusks emerging from his lower lip, pale ivory against the darkness of his skin.
Eliza's chest tightened. He was no brute.
Not the savage monster she had been told or taught to believe.
He was…
Handsome.
The thought struck her in dismay, reverberating through her as her heart hammered wildly, betraying her.
"My name is Rakhal Karthan," he said quietly.
The words rang through the chamber, low and deliberate, each syllable carrying weight. They seemed to hang in the silence long after his voice had fallen still.
Karthan.
The name struck her like a hammer blow, reverberating through her chest. Her blood went cold even as the fire cast warmth across her skin.
She knew that name. Everyone did. It belonged to the ruling line of the Varak. The blood that commanded their armies, their clans, their endless war.
Of course.
It hadn't been an ordinary soldier who had come for her. Not an assassin sent to slip through the shadows.
It had been him.
Rakhal Karthan.
The name echoed inside her, dark and resonant, as if it had been meant to. As if he had known exactly what it would do to her.
"Kardoc would never agree to marry a human."
His voice was soft, almost flat, but there—just there—she thought she detected the faintest flicker of amusement, like a shadow beneath the words.
Eliza's jaw dropped. Her breath caught hard in her throat.
"You mean…" The words slipped out before she could stop them. "You?"
Her chest heaved, her pulse hammering against her ribs. Bewilderment crashed into her, colliding with anger, confusion, disbelief, leaving her raw and unsteady.
"You were going to kill me," she whispered, her voice breaking into a tremor of fury. "Now you want to force me to marry you? Why?"
Her voice rose on that last word, sharp, demanding, as if sheer outrage could pierce through the wall of his calm.
"It's true," he answered coldly. "I was sent to kill you.
To end the war for good. But the reality is that even with your death, the fighting wouldn't have ended.
Your father's death didn't change a thing.
When you told me about the Ketheri, I realised a different solution was needed.
Your tongue saved your life, Eliza Ducanis.
And now…" His eyes darkened, his voice dropping lower.
"…I will keep you alive—if you do exactly as I say. "
She stared up at him, searching his face for something—anything. A flicker of mercy, a spark of doubt, some trace of humanity that might make sense of this impossible bargain.
But there was nothing.
Just the cold, hard lines of calculation.
Of course. He was an orc. Why should he get sentimental over her—a human? One of the humans who had driven his kind into battle for years. For generations.
The words slipped from her before she could stop them, born of a sharp, reckless curiosity.
"Do you not hate me?" she asked suddenly.
His dark eyebrows rose, the faintest shift of expression—as if her bluntness had surprised him. Or perhaps… impressed him.
"Hate?" he repeated, the word rolling low from his chest.
At his feet, the shadows stirred, restless, writhing as though the very question had roused them. Their tendrils stretched and curled along the stone floor, reaching for the edges of the firelight.
Eliza swallowed hard, her heart hammering as she watched them twist and coil, their silent movements echoing the tension in his voice.
"There was a time when I would have hated you," Rakhal said, his voice low and cold. "But that time has long since passed. You and your people have caused me anger, yes… but not hate. You haven't earned my hate."
"What would it take to earn it?" she asked, the question escaping before she could stop it. "We've killed your people. You've killed ours. Isn't that enough?"
His eyes darkened. "Hate requires passion. I left that behind long ago. What remains is purpose. Calculation. The clear sight to see what must be done, regardless of personal feeling."
Eliza shook her head slowly, disbelief tightening her chest. She couldn't fathom him. She had always been taught that orcs were mindless berserkers, creatures who lived for blood and battle, who cared nothing for strategy or reason.
But this male…
He was much more complicated than she had ever imagined.
And that unsettled her more than any roaring brute on the battlefield ever could.
Her anger rose hot and sudden, burning away the edge of fear. He had been sent to kill her. Coldly, deliberately, as a matter of strategy. And now he stood before her, his face unmasked, declaring that he would keep her alive, that she was no longer an enemy but a tool.
Not revenge. Not hate.
Calculation.
The realization turned her stomach, fury sparking in her veins. She wasn't a queen to him.
She was just a pawn.
"My people will soon discover I'm gone, if they haven't already," she said, forcing her voice to steady, forcing threat into every syllable. "It won't take them long to suspect foul play—on your side. My war mages will rain magefire on the plains."
She leaned forward slightly, meeting his black gaze without flinching.
"And if they don't find me—if I'm declared missing or dead—my cousin Thelius will take the crown. And he is… rash. Hotheaded. Easily influenced. The High Mage Darvus will seize him like a puppet, and Darvus will convince him to throw everything into one final, bloody battle."
Her pulse raced, but she pressed on, letting the words spill like knives.
"I've held the council back until now. I've made them see that the cost of life would be too great—on both sides.
But Thelius and Darvus are not cautious.
They would grind a thousand souls beneath their boots to attain victory.
They would scorch the earth so nothing grows again for a thousand years.
They don't care if there's nothing left to fight for—so long as they win. "
The firelight crackled, filling the silence her words left behind.
The orc nodded, slow and deliberate. For the briefest moment, something flickered in his eyes—acknowledgment, perhaps even a grudging respect. "Your cousin sounds like my brother," he said quietly. "All fire, no foresight." Then his expression hardened once more into that mask of cold detachment.
Then he turned from her.
Cold. Unaffected.
He walked away, his massive frame receding into shadow, his stride unhurried, deliberate, as though her words hadn't touched him at all. He left her—just left her—sitting there with the echo of her own voice ringing in her ears, her threats already fading into memory.
Fury swelled in her chest. She wanted to shout, to curse him, to throw her rage like fire at his back. She wanted to leap up and chase after him, demand he listen, demand he acknowledge her.
But she didn't.
She forced herself still, jaw tight, hands curled into fists in her lap. She would not give him that satisfaction. She would not let him see that he could provoke her so easily.
The heavy door closed behind him, leaving her alone.
Silence pressed in, broken only by the crackling of the hearth. The warmth seeped gradually into the chamber, chasing the chill from the air, and she drew in a deep breath, steadying herself.
It was then that she realized—
His shirt was still wrapped around her shoulders.
The coarse fabric held his warmth, and with it, his scent. Earth and smoke. Steel and leather. Something darker, something distinctly male that filled her senses until her pulse stuttered wildly.
She clenched the fabric tighter, cursing herself for noticing.
She drew in a slow breath, clutching the fabric tighter around her. The fire popped in the hearth, scattering sparks that winked against the stone before fading into ash.
A chill of determination hardened in her chest.
She would not be passive. She would not be used, not by him, not by anyone.
Silently, she vowed to use everything she had—her mind, her words, her crown, even the strange awareness she felt toward him—to find a crack in this male's cold, unyielding shell.
For her survival.
For the survival of her people.
To make certain that everything she had fought for, everything she had endured, did not collapse into chaos and ash.