Chapter 25 Dina
DINA
The great hall of the Fire Sun Clan is a cavern of joyous, overwhelming chaos.
After a lifetime spent in the cold, oppressive silence of Lord Jildred’s estate, the sheer volume of noise is akin to a blow to the head.
Hundreds of Orcs, their powerful bodies clad in leather and fur, feast at long, heavy tables.
Their laughter is a booming, unrestrained thing that shakes the very rafters.
The air is ripe with the rich, savory smell of roasting meat, the sharp tang of ale, and the smoke from the great fire pits that burn in the exact center of the hall, casting a wild, dancing light on the laughing faces.
The relentless, thunderous beat of war drums is a rhythm that vibrates deep in my bones, a frantic, alien heartbeat.
I am seated at the high table, a place of honor beside Xylon, but I feel as small and out of place as a field mouse at a wolf’s feast. Earlier, two Orc women with kind eyes and gentle hands had taken me away.
They had replaced my ragged, filthy slave tunic with new clothes—soft leather leggings, a warm tunic of deep green wool, and a heavy, fur-lined cloak to ward off the mountain chill.
They had brushed the tangles from my hair and washed the grime from my face.
At last, I am clean. I am warm. I am not a slave. And I have never been more terrified.
Xylon is a grounding presence beside me, his thigh a warm, solid wall against mine.
He seems to feel my unease, his large hand finding mine under the table, his fingers giving a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
He is home. He is a prince among his people, laughing and talking with the warriors who come to clap him on the shoulder, a fierce, proud joy radiating from him that makes my heart ache.
The crowd parts, and a figure of immense presence approaches our table.
It is Xylon’s father, Chief Borin. He is a mountain of an Orc, his silver-streaked braids adorned with iron rings, his face a roadmap of ancient battles and heavy burdens.
He stops, his dark eyes, so like his son’s, studying me with a keen, assessing gaze.
I feel a familiar urge to shrink, to look away, to make myself invisible.
But then his stern expression softens. He places a hand, heavy and calloused, on the table before me.
"Dina," he says in a deep, resonant rumble that cuts through the surrounding chaos.
"The chieftain of the Fire Sun Clan, and a father, thanks you.
You brought my son back from the darkness.
There is no price, no tribute, that can ever equal such a gift.
You are a friend to this clan. You will always have a home here. "
His words, spoken with such formal, deep respect, shatter the dam I have built around my own heart.
To be thanked, to be offered a home, to be called a friend by a man of such power…
it is too much. Tears I thought I had no more of spring to my eyes, and I can only nod, a choked sob caught in my throat.
Later, the celebration still roaring, Xylon is pulled into a conversation with a group of older warriors.
He gives my hand a final squeeze, a silent promise to return, before he moves away.
I take the opportunity to slip away from the high table, my head spinning from the noise and the single horn of ale I was persuaded to drink.
I find a quieter alcove near the edge of the hall, partly hidden by a great, carved pillar, just needing a moment to breathe.
It is from here that I overhear them.
Their voices are low, guttural rumbles, but in the relative quiet of the alcove, the words are sharp, clear as crystal. I recognize the one speaking—a great, brutish Orc with a cruel twist to his mouth. Grak. The rival Xylon had told me about.
“He is not the same,” Grak says, his voice thick with contempt. “The Dark Elf’s magic tainted him. Weakened him.”
“He seems strong enough,” another warrior grunts. “He looks as he did before.”
“His body, perhaps,” Grak scoffs. “But his spirit? To be brought low by a curse is one thing. To be saved by a soft, helpless human? It is a shame upon his lineage. How can a true Orc warrior, a son of Borin, be rescued by a creature with no honor, no strength?”
The words are a splash of ice water, a sickening jolt that sobers me instantly. My stomach plummets.
“She is why he is weak,” Grak continues, his voice dripping with venom. “He looks at her like she is the sun itself. A human. A worthless, fragile thing. He has brought a sickness into our stronghold.”
I feel my blood run cold. I should move. I should slip away before they see me. But I am frozen to the spot, pinned by the sheer, casual hatred in their voices.
And then it is too late. The one called Grak turns his head, and his dark, malevolent eyes lock onto mine.
A slow, cruel smile spreads across his face.
He sees not a person, but an opportunity.
He pushes himself away from his companions and stalks toward me, his movements a predator’s deliberate, intimidating stride.
He stops near me, his massive frame blocking out the light from the fires, casting me in his shadow. His eyes are full of a cold, calculating malice.
“Well, well,” he sneers, his voice loud enough for the Orcs at the nearest tables to turn and watch.
“The little human hero.” He leans down, his foul, ale-soaked breath washing over me.
“Tell me, witch,” he says in a dangerous growl.
“What price did you demand for your magic? What did our chieftain’s son have to promise you to buy his life back? ”