Eidel

  The day sat heavy and unmoving, the twin suns still high in the sky, their slow descent promising hours yet before dusk. Heat pressed down on the land, thick with the smells of damp earth. All around them sprawled the orc camp—one of many scattered across the island—less a settlement than a temporary wound torn into the land.

  Tents sagged under their own filth, hides stitched together in uneven patches. Weapons lay half-buried in mud where they’d been dropped and forgotten. Cookfires smoldered without care, smoke drifting low and sour, stinging the eyes and throat. There was no rhythm here, no discipline.

  Orcs wandered aimlessly, hands never far from blades, eyes constantly searching for something to break.

  Eidel leaned against the rusted iron bars of their makeshift cage, fingers curling around the corroded metal until flakes of red-brown rust dusted her skin. She stared out at the camp, jaw tight. Even the air felt dirty, like it clung to her robes and crept under her skin.

  “This is such a stupid situation we got ourselves into,” she muttered, the fatigue in her voice slipping through despite her best efforts to keep it buried.

  She was of average height and slender, her posture still naturally straight despite everything. Gentle features and a soft, almost academic face belied the ruthless intelligence behind her eyes—eyes that never truly rested, tracking and recalculating with the speed of a sharp, restless mind. The trimmed robes she wore marked her as an elite, garments that had once been immaculate, symbols of safety and unquestioned authority. Now they were stained and torn, dulled by days of captivity and neglect. Her dark hair, cut short and deliberately fluffy, framed a face that worked very hard not to betray fear.

  A man behind her let out a quiet, humorless snort.

  “We?” he said.

  Eidel turned slowly.

  Zahir stood with his arms folded, posture rigid despite the chains binding him to the cage. He was broad-shouldered and solid, his presence filling the space even now. His dark hair was cropped short in the practical style of a lifelong soldier, and a pale scar ran cleanly across his cheek. The mark of the Bagravian elite guard. Only they were allowed to bear such scars openly; all others had theirs magically repaired, lest anyone mistake them for the real thing.

  He looked like a man who had stood in fire before.

  And expected to do so again.

  Eidel fixed him with a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

  It was extremely rare for anyone to speak to her with that kind of familiarity, rarer still to challenge her outright. But Zahir was different. She had known him her entire life. He was practically family—an uncle in all but blood. Still, she refused to indulge it. If she was going to reclaim fear and respect for their name, there had to be standards. Even now. Especially now.

  He held her gaze for a moment longer, then rolled his eyes and cleared his throat.

  “My lady,” he said flatly. “I forget my place.”

  She huffed and turned back toward the camp.

  She didn’t need to say it. Didn’t need to admit it aloud.

  He was right.

  This disaster—by her own internal accounting—was about ninety-eight percent her fault. The remaining two percent belonged to bad luck.

  For a moment, fury surged through her, hot and sharp. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She had come here for a reason. She had plans. Carefully constructed plans. Seeing herself like this, caged and helpless, made her hands tremble as she tightened her grip on the bars.

  She forced a breath out through her nose.

  No. This wouldn’t do.

  She was the leader. Panic was a luxury she couldn’t afford. She had to stay cold. Calculating. In control.

  Another sigh escaped her as she glanced back into the cage, taking in what remained of her royal security detail.

  Fifteen.

  Fifteen trained killers, each one sworn to protect her with their lives. Bruised. Chained. Filthy. And yet every one of them stood straighter than anyone else in the camp. Heads high. Eyes alert. Waiting.

  Including Zahir—the square-jawed pain in her ass who also happened to be their leader.

  Her chest tightened painfully.

  She almost wept to see them like this.

  “I wonder what the supply chain looks like for these cages,” she murmured aloud, eyes drifting to the rusted iron bars.

  No one answered.

  She continued anyway. “I mean…they couldn’t have warped in with all of this, could they?” She leaned closer, fingers tracing the pitted metal, studying welds and seams. “Local mining and smelting is possible, I suppose. But an operation of this scale?” Her brow furrowed. “On an island like this?”

  The ground trembled.

  Heavy footsteps approached.

  Eidel stiffened.

  An enormous orc lumbered into view, tusked grin splitting his broad face. His skin was mottled green and gray, thickened and scarred by years of battle. Crude confidence rolled off him in waves as he stopped before the cage, flanked by two companions even uglier and bigger than he was. They were hunched over, as if their posture was a concession to their leader’s ego. Their armor was a patchwork of rusted plates and ill-fitting scraps, clattering softly when they moved, a stark contrast to the certainty with which their leader carried himself.

  They loomed just beyond the bars.

  “HUMANS,” the orc barked, savoring the word. His grin widened. “Today is a lucky day.”

  Eidel tilted her head slightly, unimpressed. “And why,” she asked coolly, “is it lucky?”

  The orc paused.

  Silence stretched for a long and deliberate period. He wanted them nervous. Wanted to feel their fear.

  Eidel waited him out, face composed, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

  At last, he spoke.

  “Two of you will fight,” he said. “Winner lives.” His grin sharpened. “Loser joins us for dinner.”

  A collective breath was drawn inside the cage.

  “That’s barbaric,” Eidel snapped instantly. “We won’t comply.”

  Zahir’s eyes widened. “My lady—please.”

  The orc laughed, deep and booming, joined a heartbeat later by the cackles of his companions.

  “We already have volunteers,” the orc said, nodding once.

  The two larger orcs stepped forward.

  The realization struck Eidel like a blow to the chest.

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  “No—wait!” she shouted.

  “We will go,” Zahir said firmly.

  Her blood went cold.

  She turned on him, color draining from her face. “We will not comply, Zahir.”

  He met her gaze, and she saw it then. Resignation. Calm. The steady acceptance of a man who had already made peace with what was coming.

  “Wait—wait!” she cried, panic breaking free at last.

  It was too late.

  The orcs surged forward, wrenching the cage open. The others strained uselessly against their chains, shouting, cursing, reaching for Zahir and the second guard as they were dragged away.

  Rough sacks were shoved over their heads, cutting off sight and sound.

  Eidel lunged forward instinctively, hands scraping against iron bars that refused to give.

  And just like that—

  They were gone.

  —

  The noise hit them first.

  A roaring circle of cheers rose up as they were dragged across the camp, boots slipping in mud, shoulders shoved forward by rough hands. The sack over Eidel’s head muffled the world into chaos—laughter, pounding feet, the guttural cadence of orcish voices growing louder with every step.

  Then, suddenly—

  Light.

  The sack was yanked free, and Eidel blinked hard, her eyes stinging as firelight and twin suns flooded back in. She staggered, barely catching herself before a hand shoved her forward again.

  They had been brought to the heart of the camp.

  Orcs crowded the clearing in a wide ring, thick bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, tusked faces slick with sweat and anticipation. Fires burned low and hot around them, casting flickering shadows that made the scene feel unreal. It was a nightmare stitched together from smoke and blood.

  At the far end sat their leader.

  Wagar.

  He lounged on the only seat that could generously be called a throne—an assemblage of scavenged wood, bones, and stolen cushions. Trinkets and trophies were strewn around him without care: jewelry, blades, torn packs, bits of armor. Most of it Eidel recognized instantly, her stomach twisting as the realization settled in.

  Their possessions.

  What little hope she’d been clinging to—that the rest of her retinue had somehow slipped away, that they were still out there—collapsed in on itself. The sight left no room for doubt. There had been no escape.

  Her gaze snapped to the side.

  Zahir stood a short distance away, his sack already removed. He looked leaner than ever under the firelight, muscles coiled, eyes sharp and alert. He was already scanning the ring, head tilting slightly as if searching for an opening.

  She swallowed hard.

  There was none.

  She knew it. He knew it too.

  And worse. She knew what he was going to do.

  The realization made her stomach churn.

  This was her fault. Not mostly. Not partially.

  Entirely.

  Her ambitions. Her impatience. Her belief that she could outthink the world if she just schemed hard enough. Now it was all coming due, and the cost was standing across from her with calm eyes and a knife soon to be forced into his hand.

  The orcs drank and jeered, voices overlapping into a single, ugly roar. Someone threw a bone. Another laughed so hard he nearly toppled over.

  Then Wagar stood.

  He raised his arms, massive shoulders rolling as the noise slowly died down. The crowd obeyed, eager and obedient, the way predators always were when food was involved.

  “Warak Dun,” he bellowed. “Bo dunnar habb kin dugga!”

  Eidel understood Orcish only in pieces, but she didn’t need fluency to grasp the meaning.

  Dinner.

  And a show.

  Wagar waited for the last echoes of cheering to fade, then snapped his fingers.

  At his command, the orcs surged forward, shoving Eidel and Zahir into the center of the ring. A blade was pressed into her palm. It was small, crude, and sharpened just enough to do the job.

  “Rules,” Wagar growled, leaning forward. “No magic, filthy humans.”

  He spat into the dirt.

  Eidel stumbled, clutching the knife loosely, its weight suddenly unbearable. She kept the blade low, angled toward the ground.

  She wasn’t going to stab him.

  “Zahir,” she whispered.

  “You should,” he said calmly.

  Her breath caught. “I—I can’t. You know that.”

  Around them, the orcs were already shouting, stamping their feet, demanding blood.

  Zahir glanced around the circle, jaw tightening. “If you don’t give them something to enjoy,” he murmured, “they’ll ask for more.”

  She nodded, the logic sinking in even as her hands trembled.

  Tears spilled over now, blurring the firelight. “I’m sorry,” she choked. “I was so stupid. I shouldn’t have—”

  He looked at her and smiled.

  There was no bitterness on his face. No anger.

  He looked almost gentle, at peace.

  “I don’t regret joining you,” he said.

  She stared at him, stunned.

  “I know why you do what you do,” he continued quietly, “we have the same dream.”

  Something in his gaze broke through her panic.

  For the first time, she felt truly seen. She realized she had never needed to persuade him or make her case; his heart had always burned for the same purpose as hers.

  “Fight!” Wagar roared, rising to his feet. “HUMANS, FIGHT!”

  The orcs erupted.

  “FIGHT OR ALL DIE TONIGHT!”

  Zahir’s expression hardened. “Then let’s make it convincing,” he said. “You remember what I taught you.”

  She nodded, though her heart hammered so violently she thought it might burst.

  Tears streamed freely now.

  How had she been so foolish?

  “Come on, Eidel!” Zahir shouted, loud enough for the crowd to hear.

  Her gaze lifted instinctively to the sky.

  High against the fading glare of the twin suns that now sank toward the horizon, she saw a small dark bird gliding high above the camp, wings spread wide and effortless. Free.

  Oh, how she wished she were that bird. Untethered. Unwatched. Far away from the cruelty below.

  She swallowed hard.

  Her fingers tightened around the knife, knuckles whitening as she wiped her face with the back of her hand. Her body moved on instinct, settling into a stance she’d practiced a hundred times under Zahir’s watchful eye.

  “You can do this,” he said, nodding once.

  And then—

  A sound tore through the air.

  A violent, rattling cough that was loud enough to silence the ring. It echoed unnaturally, harsh and unmistakable.

  Every head turned.

  The orcs fell silent.

  Eidel froze, knife still raised, heart in her throat as the world seemed to hold its breath.

  —

  Eidel blinked, her breath catching.

  Even Zahir turned at the sound.

  The ragged coughing came again. From the edge of the camp, a lone figure emerged, walking as if he had all the time in the world.

  He was the strangest man she had ever seen.

  Boots crusted with dried mud. Dark, travel-worn pants. A heavy brown cloak so filthy it looked more like a discarded tarp than clothing, hanging loose from broad shoulders. In one hand he carried a simple walking stick, tapping it against the ground as he advanced.

  But it was his face that stole the air from her lungs.

  His eyes were covered by a bandana—red, white, and patterned with stars—wrapped tight across his face, barely containing a wild mane of blond hair that spilled out in every direction. The cloth fluttered slightly as he walked.

  Blind.

  In the middle of an orc camp.

  Eidel felt the unreal lurch of a dream settling over her.

  The man coughed again, harder this time, then wandered over to a nearby boulder and sat down with a heavy sigh, as if he’d simply grown tired of the walk. He reached beneath his cloak and pulled free a water skin made from animal hide, uncorked it, and tipped it back, drinking deeply.

  “HUMAN!” an orc roared.

  Eidel’s heart hammered.

  How did he even get in here?

  “If I could just have one moment,” the stranger muttered around another gulp of water.

  He coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and exhaled slowly.

  All around him, the camp had gone eerily still.

  The orcs stared. Some snarled. Others hesitated, confused. Even Wagar had risen from his seat, massive hand closing around the handle of his cleaver as he studied this lone, blind intruder with narrowed eyes.

  The man took one last sip, corked the skin, and tilted his head upward.

  “What’s all this?” he asked mildly. “You folks having a little party?”

  A low ripple of growls passed through the camp.

  Wagar spoke, his voice heavy and final. “Jagar du baast dugga.”

  Two orcs stepped forward at once, weapons drawn, boots thudding against the dirt as they closed the distance.

  “They’re going to kill you!” Eidel shouted, her voice breaking as she twisted toward him. “You’re in an orc camp—run, you fool!”

  The man tilted his head, listening.

  “That voice…” he murmured, turning slightly in her direction. “Could it be…” His lips curved faintly. “A fair maiden?”

  Eidel stared at him in disbelief. “You idiot!” she screamed. “You’re going to die!”

  Across from her, Zahir had gone completely still. His expression was unreadable, eyes locked on the stranger with a focus that made Eidel’s skin prickle.

  The man chuckled softly.

  “Every man dies,” he said calmly, turning his bandana-covered face fully toward Eidel as the orcs reached striking distance. “But few really live.”

  Then the world snapped.

  In a blink—too fast to follow—the walking stick clattered to the ground and steel flashed. The stranger’s arm moved once. Twice.

  Thuds followed.

  Two heads struck the dirt and rolled to a stop.

  Silence slammed down over the camp.

  Blood sprayed, bodies collapsed, and for a single, frozen heartbeat, no one breathed.

  Eidel’s grip on her knife tightened.

  The man rose smoothly to his feet and reached up, tearing away the filthy brown cloak. It fell open to reveal a long coat beneath—black spiderweave threaded with deep crimson lines, shimmering faintly in the firelight like something alive.

  He spun his blade once, casually, then leveled it straight at Wagar.

  The orc leader’s eyes widened.

  “I’ll save you the trouble of asking,” the man said evenly.

  His voice carried across the camp like a challenge carved in stone.

  “It’s Barrett Donovan.”