Voj’Kasak sat outside on the bench, tapping his cane. I stepped out and paused in the doorway, spear in hand, and summoned Loogie and lifted it to my shoulder. It immediately crawled under the mass of my braids, clinging to the collar of my breastplate.

  “Rau’dajal,” Voj’Kasak murmured, his tapping cane falling silent. “Meet their eyes. Never look down, no matter what they do or say, even if the Chief commands it. Fearlessness is our blood right. Don’t let the other side of you show.”

  I looked across the pens, to the firelight beyond. The blue star had set. The few warriors who gathered there were hulking shadows against the blaze. My chin dipped in a slow nod. This. I was used to this.

  Unknowingly, I’d put myself into a familiar situation from my life before this abduction. Into a place that called for absolute confidence in the face of uncertainty and uncontrollable threat. I could control myself. My words and my actions.

  “What other side?” I smirked and set out for the path around the pens with a steady stride.

  The shadows were cold, pulling at me, as if they wanted me to join them instead of stepping onto the beaten soil between the circle of five yurts. The felt walls loomed around me, promising shelter if I lurked there and did not step into the flicker of light.

  I cracked my neck and stepped out, gaze steady on the five large figures painted with orange glow and darkness. All but one looked my way. I didn’t sneak, so they knew I was coming, but the glares. Damn. The part I pretended didn’t exist wanted to find a rock to crawl under.

  Instead, I lifted my chin and spoke in the language that had become fluent, “I have come to see the Chief. I will be accepted by the Salt Spears.”

  A gruff laugh came from the figure that didn’t look up. I scanned all of them and stood there, waiting. One warrior stood. He was taller than me by a handspan and almost twice as broad in the shoulders. His hair was braided back like mine, and he had a disfiguring scar across one eye that had turned the orb into a milky globe in his socket, the lids stitched back together, brow split.

  He set down a dented silver stein on the rough bench he’d been sitting on. Thick leather bands crossed his chest; bracers partially covered a handful of scars like mine. The sheer muscle mass alone made my bladder shrink. His face and neck were streaked with tattoos, like tiger stripes.

  I stood taller, but kept my joints loose and my mouth shut. I’d made my petition. There was nothing else to say.

  His nameplate read Ludar One-Eye. With the one eye he did have, he looked me over, sneering. He walked up to me, too close. Typical intimidation move, to get into someone else’s space. I didn’t move but got ready to, widening my attention to his head and shoulders.

  He sniffed me, which was hella weird, but I refused to flinch. “What are you? Seen you around these past few days. Little and ugly, playing with Old Fang. Pathetic.”

  I blinked very slowly, the corner of my mouth teasing up smugly. “I am half-blood. My heart is Ork. I will be accepted.”

  “Is he stupid?” One of the warriors around the fire murmured to another.

  All except the Krual were watching. The Chief tore meat straight from the bone, chin dripping with juices I could smell from where I stood. I wished I’d eaten first, but it wouldn’t have settled my nerves. The ones I said I didn’t have.

  The firelight licked upwards, painting the sky a dark purple by contrast, but it couldn’t blot out the stars. I felt the heat of it, and the cold of the shadows behind me. It was too late to change my mind.

  Ludar went for the next predictable move—a shove at my shoulder. I sidestepped, his arm slipping past. When he realized he wasn’t going to connect, he turned the move into a slap, which I ducked, his palm skimming my braids. I wanted to smile at him but resisted. Mockery would just get me into trouble that I didn’t need.

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  His teeth bared to the gums, he snarled. “Slippery little shit.”

  “My best quality,” I responded.

  “Got six marks on his face,” someone said. “Who let a puny adolescent get marked?”

  I wanted to point out they were just charcoal, not tattoos, but instead I said, “I have fought, and won, six fights. It is my right to have pride.”

  I didn’t take my eyes off Ludar, in case he used the moment I dropped my attention to take a swipe at me. Ludar grabbed at my arm. I yanked it back, my slide step kicking up dust, gaze narrowed.

  “Come here,” a voice said. Deep, commanding, like the crack of an avalanche.

  Urda, Chief of the Salt Spears, had spoken.

  I pivoted, carrying my spear in one hand and coming to the fire at an angle so I could keep Ludar in my periphery. My spear skills were basic at best, so I did not want to go up against any of these seasoned warriors. Hell, Ludar could break most of my bones just by sitting on me.

  The heat increased as I closed the distance, the blaze from the pit danced with a searing beckon. I stopped near the bench the Krual sat upon. She looked at me.

  Beneath her heavy brows, I saw power. Cold confidence, both like and unlike what I’d seen in Ashwynn’s gaze. Not the calm control in Zayan’s, or the self-assurance of Hythsaa. Beyond it, like water flowing under ice.

  Urda, Chieftain of the Salt Spears, had stats that roughly compared to the other lords. The size of her HP bar maybe a bit smaller. She was newer, younger than the others. Yet she was somehow more terrifying. Like elements, these district lords were distinct. This one was immovable.

  “Closer,” she grunted.

  I didn’t want to get within arm’s reach of her—but I did. I watched her face, crossed with scars and faded tattoos, assessing for threat. As if a pup could look at a polar bear and recognize it. I did as I was told.

  Her hand snapped out so fast I barely saw it. She caught my arm, and yanked me toward her, my body forced to follow. I staggered to compensate, teeth flashing.

  She had me by the bracer and twisted. My shoulder twinged, and I was forced to turn to relieve the pressure. She looked at the scar on my bicep and the one partly hidden by armor. Her eyes skimmed over my bare stomach, the ragged line around it, and the other myriad of healed wounds.

  “Not a liar. Skinny, like a human. Weak. Why should I let you weaken our clan, half-blood?”

  I bit back what I wanted to say. Clan? Barely more than a handful of orcs lived in the district. What did blood purity matter when they were all but gone? From what I gathered, there were no children, nor could there be. Their warlike ways were done. With no ground to gain, no growth to attain, they were just…relics.

  “I will not weaken it,” I stated.

  She snorted, flinging my arm away.

  “Weak,” she said. “Leave, or you die.”

  She went back to eating, turning her gaze away from me. Dismissed, and kindly. I glanced around the fire at the other warriors sitting there. One of them had a hand on the spear resting beside him.

  “I won’t go until I am Salt Spear,” I growled, staring her down.

  She tossed the knot of bone in her hand to a plate and eased to a stand. My heart pounded, jaw clenching hard enough to crack teeth. I’d chosen this course. I’d see it through.

  Still didn’t see the swing until it was too late. [Stun Strike: Unarmed] Her fist hooked just under my breastplate, and the impact shocked my body into stillness, even as I went weightless. I flew up a foot and back five, crashing to the ground. I lay there, waiting for my breath to catch up to me.

  Left my lungs back there by the fire, I guess.

  When air finally leaked into my chest and I could sense my limbs, my ribs screamed in protest, stabbing with the motion. I contemplated life. My guts might’ve been smashed into gravy. Some ribs were broken. I felt something still clutched in my fist. The spear. A wave of relief crashed against the pain. I held onto it. I heard a squeak by my ear. Loogie! Shit!

  “Sk—” I didn’t have enough breath to swear. That orc just knocked half my HP away with a casual punch.

  A warrior named Dag rose, blocking the fire from my sight. His huge hand loomed over me and grabbed my breastplate by the collar, his other fist drawn back as he hauled me up. Ro’Fatoft dangled by my side; it was all I could do to hold onto it.

  “Stop,” Urda commanded.

  Dag turned, and I swung with him, dangling from his hand like a limp kitten.

  The Chief pointed at us, a grim look on her face. My eyelids fluttered, trying to piece together what was going on. Dag’s gaze dropped to his hand, and mine followed.

  Loogie was latched onto Dag’s knuckle like a tiny, savage—murderpillar.

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