Chapter 15 #2
And there, on the table, was...
A dagger, resting in its sheath.
She could kill him.
The realization struck like a blow.
Right now, with him lying defenseless before her, all his strength and shadows useless against the simple weight of steel.
The fate of the war. The fate of Maidan. The fate of everything...
It could all be decided here, in this quiet chamber, with one single thrust of her hand.
For better, or for worse?
Her eyes lingered on the dagger, the thought burning hot and insistent.
She could take it, could drive it into his chest and end him where he lay.
But then... what?
Her throat tightened.
The only one who knew she was here—the only one who had shielded her from the wrath of the stronghold—would be dead.
And she would be left alone.
Alone in the heart of Varak territory.
There was no way she could make it out unseen. Not through halls crawling with guards sworn to the orc king, not through gates thicker and higher than any fortress in Maidan. Not even if it were night, not even if she clung to every shadow she could find.
The dagger might kill him, but it would kill her, too.
She couldn't kill him.
Even if she crept forward, dagger in hand, pressed it to his throat—she would be putting herself in danger. He could stir at any moment, and then what?
Instead, she stood there for a long breath, studying him.
His face was so strangely still, so peaceful. Almost—
No. She cut off the thought, biting the inside of her cheek. She wouldn't think that. Not about him.
But what had caused him to collapse here, on the floor of all places? Did orcs sleep like this, on cold stone? It seemed absurd. And hadn't he—?
Her heart lurched. He had given her his bed.
That wasn't how a hostile captor usually treated a prisoner.
With her throat tight, she tiptoed backward, back toward the doorway. Better not to disturb him. She would wait and see what the day brought.
But then—
Something tugged at her. A feeling she didn't want to name.
A sense that she should... repay him somehow.
He was the one who had spared her. Yes, it had been calculated.
Yes, he had been sent to kill her in the first place.
But he was also the one who had brought her food, who had ensured she had a warm bed and his own garment against the wind.
The one who had lit the hearth before he left, who had kept her alive when he could so easily have ended it all.
Slowly, she turned back.
She went to the bed, pulled a thick fur pelt from the tangled linens, and carried it across the chamber in her arms.
Back to where he lay, the morning light glancing off the curve of his tusks, his body rising and falling with the steadiness of sleep.
And she leaned down, intending to drape the blanket over him.
She bent slowly, careful not to let the fur brush against the stone. With delicate hands she draped it over him, the thick pelt settling across his chest and shoulders, soft where his body was all hard planes and muscle.
The contrast struck her—the sheer, brutal power of him hidden beneath something so gentle.
She should despise him.
Her jaw tightened, remembering the blade at her throat, the shadows that had suffocated her cries. The terror of being stolen from her very bed. She should be consumed by anger. By fear.
And yet... she couldn't bring herself to hate him.
Not as she looked down at him like this, his face slack with sleep, the monstrous edges softened.
She was a queen. She understood duty. She understood sacrifice.
And she understood what he was trying to do—for his people.
To end the bloodshed.
Wasn't that what she wanted too?
For a long moment, she lingered there, caught in the quiet, staring down at her enemy cloaked in shadows and contradictions.
And for the first time, she wasn't sure whether she still saw him only as her enemy.
As she straightened, intending to slip away, something clamped around her wrist.
Her breath hitched.
An iron grip. Unyielding.
And before she could even gasp, cold steel kissed the side of her throat. A dagger—pulled from nowhere, pressed so close she could feel the edge bite.
Her heart slammed into her ribs.
She stared into his eyes, snapped open in an instant, blazing with lethal light. Death lived there—pure, unflinching, a predator's instinct ready to strike.
For a frozen heartbeat, she thought it was over.
Then—
Recognition. Realisation.
The killing edge in his gaze shifted, dulled, as if he had woken not just from sleep but from some darker place. His breath was harsh, ragged, his grip still punishing, but the blade eased back, leaving only the ghost of its touch.
Slowly, deliberately, he released her wrist.
"What are you doing?" His voice was rough with sleep, edged with steel, but there was a note in it that almost sounded... bemused.
Eliza's breath came shallow, fear still coursing through her veins. The memory of cold steel at her throat lingered, sharp and suffocating. She had been seconds—heartbeats—from death.
But she forced herself to steady, pulling her spine straight, her voice measured. "I saw you lying here, asleep. I thought... you might be cold."
The words hung between them.
Something shifted in his expression. His dark brows rose slightly, a rare flicker of surprise breaking through the iron control of his features. For a moment, just a moment, his face softened—unguarded.
Then his gaze slid past her, to the desk. To the dagger lying in plain sight.
His jaw tightened. His eyes returned to hers, unreadable now, but harder.
"You could have killed me," he said.
"I highly doubt that," she scoffed, though her pulse was still racing. Her eyes flicked toward the blade now in his hand. "You sleep lightly and strike like a serpent."
A shadow passed across his features, hardening them again. "One has to guard against threats at all times—even in sleep."
He pushed himself upright in one smooth motion, broad shoulders flexing, muscles shifting beneath skin etched with scars and runes. The dagger found its place at his waist with a decisive motion, the steel sliding home as though it had never left his grip.
Eliza crossed her arms, forcing her body to still though her heart still hammered. "That's a strange place to rest," she said, her tone deliberately cool, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing her rattled. "Is it customary for orcs to sleep on stone floors?"
"We can sleep anywhere," he said gruffly. "You learn to take rest when you can."
He rose fluidly to his feet, lifting the blanket with him, draping it across one broad shoulder. Somehow, even burdened with nothing more than a fur pelt, he managed to look almost regal—commanding, unshakable.
She had always thought of orcs as brutish, wild, unpredictable. And he was unpredictable, yes—but also measured. Controlled.
And maddeningly handsome.
Her lips parted before she could stop herself. "And... have you rested enough?"
He only shrugged, enigmatic, shadows playing faintly in the hard lines of his face. "Enough."
He wasn't going to explain. She could tell. Why he had collapsed on the floor like that, why exhaustion had taken him in such a vulnerable state—he clearly didn't want her probing there. And perhaps it was better not to provoke him.
The tone between them had shifted, though. Less hostile. Almost... amicable.
For now.
She drew a steadying breath. "Dare I ask what happens now?"
He turned to face her fully, the blanket slipping from his shoulder, his dark eyes locking onto hers. The levity that had lingered in the air vanished, crushed beneath the weight of his gaze.
All seriousness.
"You will rest some more," he said, voice low but absolute. "Bathe. Eat. Get dressed. Prepare yourself."
A pause, deliberate, heavy.
"Tonight, we return to Istrial."
The words struck her like a blow.
Her mind raced—back to her city, her people, the war she had left behind...
And to the dangerous bargain she had made with him.
Return to Istrial.
But not as queen triumphant.
No—bound to him.
Her anger rose so fast it nearly choked her. She forced her voice into something calm, controlled—though the edge beneath it was unmistakable.
"You're taking me back... to propose this union to my people without first consulting me? An orc like you does not simply marry into the Maidan royal family. There are protocols. Formalities. Negotiations. First and foremost, the Council of Lords has to accept the union."
His eyes narrowed, his expression flat as iron. "An orc like me...?"
She didn't flinch. Didn't let herself be cowed. "You know what I meant," she said coolly.
"This marriage you propose—it's unthinkable. And even then, if the wedding occurs and the deed is done, what then? Do we live together as husband and wife?" Her voice sharpened, fierce despite the tremor she felt deep in her chest. "Or would it all just be a charade to you, a performance?"
He stepped closer, and though his sheer size still made the air around him thrum with danger, the gesture wasn't quite as threatening as before.
Intense. Yes. Mysterious. Undeniably so.
"I'm warming to the notion," he said.
Eliza's lips parted, her laugh sharp, humorless. "Ridiculous. How am I supposed to trust you? How do I know you won't just change your mind and kill me in my sleep one night?"
His gaze drifted, almost lazily, to the dagger lying on his desk. Then back to her, to her hands clenched tightly at her sides. "You didn't kill me when you had the chance."
"The circumstances are somewhat different, and you know it."
Silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bow. His eyes bore into hers, hard, unreadable. She refused to look away, her chin tilting upward, every muscle in her body screaming to stand her ground.
And then... he sighed. A low, quiet sound, unexpected in its weariness.