Behind their backs, they called themselves the fiercest of the fierce.

  “An orc strikes first, thinks later!” – that was their saying.

  They were warriors who could tear out an enemy’s throat with their teeth, rip away a mouthful of flesh, wash it down with blood, seize the strength it offered, and hurl themselves back into the fray. The sheer noise of their warband – combined with the suffocating aura of bloodlust that clung to them – sent beasts fleeing in every direction. Even magical creatures and ring-bearing monsters preferred to avoid them.

  These were massive gray-skinned orcs, among the largest of their kind. Their bodies were thick with muscle; their scar-riddled skin looked like sieves from countless battles – most of them fought against one another. Their arms and faces bore tattoos that concealed combat techniques. Orcs rarely knew how to bind techniques to their Rings, but they had mastered the agonizing practice of inscribing them directly into their flesh, carving power into themselves through pain. A warrior like that could split a man in two with an axe as easily as slicing a pumpkin.

  A closer look, however, revealed the truth: this was little more than a scavenger band.

  Like most orc packs, they trailed behind Gao’s army, picking through whatever remained after the slaughter. Sometimes they lent their strength in battle – for a price – but dealing with Gao was rarely worth it. The last time they had done so, they had lost their shaman to the frenzied stinger of a beetle. The spike had pierced his magical defenses completely, and the venom killed him within seconds.

  That was despite the fact that he possessed a green Ring at the initial level.

  Totem Rings simply did not grant the same protection as a warrior’s Ring. Even so, his magical power had been immense – respected even among orcs. After his death, the war-chief Uruk had flown into a rage and killed one of his own warriors in fury.

  That, at least, was normal.

  Uruk was savage and strong as a forest ogre. Without their shaman, the band had lost much of its combat strength. The usual orc tactic was simple: warriors cultivated a single physical Ring – most often enhancing mastery over a chosen weapon or amplifying bodily strength – while shamans with Totem Rings provided magical support and protection.

  Phil, one of the younger warriors, remembered that battle well.

  He was not quite an ordinary orc, and when necessary, he could recall fragments of the past with unsettling clarity.

  The orcs did not worship Gao, Lord of Death, though they followed his army now. They respected his strength, nothing more. Since ancient times, they had offered tribute only to the Gods of War – but for generations, no sign had come from them. Perhaps the War Gods had vanished, like all the others.

  Phil remembered their clash with the intelligent beetles. The swarm’s army had been annihilated in a single, bloody assault. For a long time afterward, bodies and severed limbs of winged creatures had rained from the sky.

  Why couldn’t they have done that earlier? While our shaman was still alive? Phil had thought then.

  He hated the walking dead.

  But that was in the past.

  This time, the army had not even reached the battlefield.

  When Gao’s forces suddenly turned back, cold fear tightened in Phil’s gut.

  It meant only one thing: no spoils again.

  Other packs would mock them.

  They all knew their true target – the floating kingdom – still lay many days ahead. Phil had dreamed of witnessing the fall of that hovering fortress and the deaths of the thousands of mages who dwelled upon its islands. Such tides of death stirred something deep inside him – an exhilaration rivaled only by mating.

  Would they lose everything again?

  And if Uruk grew enraged, it would end badly.

  The band marched in silence, afraid to make the slightest sound.

  “Why are you all so quiet?!” Uruk suddenly roared. “Sharok! Tell your chief a story!”

  The large orc behind him glanced around, seeking support.

  Time seemed to slow for Phil. He noticed another orc beside him snort faintly.

  Uruk stopped without turning. His red eyes shifted toward the source of the sound.

  “What did you say, Obang?”

  “I didn’t – ” Obang began, stepping back.

  A mistake.

  Showing weakness before the chief was a death sentence among orcs.

  Obang realized it too late. He lunged for the hilt of his cleaver, but Uruk’s steel hammer smashed into his skull with a sickening crunch. The difference between the fifth and third levels of a blue Ring was insurmountable.

  No one approached the body.

  They took only the weapon and the purse.

  As Phil passed what remained of his kinsman’s head, he swallowed hard, forcing himself not to look away.

  He tried to drift toward the edge of the formation. Distance – that was survival. The more distance, the better.

  Even if Uruk was his father, the other warriors were considered his sons as well.

  So Phil walked at the outer edge of the band, whistling old tunes under his breath. He used to enjoy listening to the shaman while he was still alive.

  Rrr…

  That was what angered him most.

  The strongest bands had shamans.

  They did not.

  Perhaps one day he would become a shaman himself.

  To do that, he would need to develop his Totem Ring – currently only at the first level. Even that had been considered a miracle, for the color of his Ring had been difficult to determine: blue.

  But that was for later.

  For now, Phil watched the pitiful pack trudging after Gao’s army like carrion-eaters shadowing a wounded beast.

  Phil remembered the stories the old shaman had told him.

  There had been a time when the world trembled before the Great Orcish Horde. In those days, the God of War still answered their prayers and strengthened their countless warbands. The last Rider of War among the orcs had been Garosh the Green, Tamer of Fury – the one who united all clans beneath a single banner. Drunk on battle and blood, the orcs had swept across kingdom after kingdom. No one could withstand that living tide.

  Then Garosh made his fatal mistake: he invaded the Human Empire.

  After years of brutal sieges and endless slaughter, the orcs were finally broken. Humanity ruled the lands until the coming of the Lord. That was how the shaman – Phil’s grandfather – had told it. And after his death, the young orc had been left with only one real path to survival:

  To become a shaman himself.

  Suddenly, the sounds of battle echoed ahead.

  Uruk’s war cry.

  Their band was under attack.

  Phil sprinted forward. When he caught sight of the mountains nearby, a terrible thought struck him.

  No… Dark elves? Is that possible?

  Peering through the trees, he froze.

  The entire band was tangled in barbed roots that writhed like living serpents.

  If the shaman had still been alive, this would never have happened.

  Then he saw her – a dark elven girl. A blue Ring of an Adept shone around her wrist, bright and unmistakable.

  They had no protection against a mage.

  Uruk strained against the thick roots binding him, but the magic held fast.

  “Do you know who you’ve crossed, elven wretch?!” he roared, scattering birds from the branches. “I am Chief Uruk!”

  And then Phil understood –

  He was behind her.

  She hadn’t noticed him.

  This was his chance.

  He tore the bracelet from his wrist – the one that sealed his Ring. The old shaman had forced him to wear it long ago; Phil’s magic had brought more harm than good. But now there was no time to fear the consequences.

  He lunged forward.

  Branches snapped under his feet. The elf spun around. In her eyes he saw a reflection of his own fear.

  His blue Ring flared to life, and behind him rose the spectral shape of a forest boar – his totem.

  Phil ran faster than he ever had before. Barbed roots lashed toward him. Several spikes tore through his legs; blood splattered across the forest floor. But he reached her.

  With a sharp motion, he snapped the sealing bracelet around her neck.

  The roots faltered.

  Uruk ripped himself free and seized the dark elf by the throat. He shot Phil a glance, grimaced, and spat.

  “So your unruly magic was good for something after all.”

  There was not a hint of gratitude in his voice.

  The problem had always been Phil’s Totem magic – strange, unstable, unpredictable. Instead of supporting the band, his totem sometimes turned against them. None of the orcs understood why.

  Uruk turned back to the elf and bared his fangs. One by one, the other orcs emerged from the thickets. Some bled from wounds left by the barbed roots. Others moved stiffly, poison dulling their limbs.

  “Tell me, pale-faced bitch,” Uruk growled in Imperial so she would understand, “should I kill you now, or are you worth something alive? Why did you attack Chief Uruk’s tribe?”

  He yanked her face closer to his.

  Phil expected her to faint from fear.

  Instead, she bared her teeth and spat directly into Uruk’s eye.

  He blinked once – then laughter thundered through the clearing.

  “Bold little bitch! Ha! I think you’ll amuse your chief!”

  The other orcs chuckled darkly.

  Then a sharp, thin voice cut across the clearing.

  “How dare you lay your filthy hands on the princess, you vile orc spawn!”

  Another dark elf stepped out from behind a tree, gripping a slender dagger. The hand holding it trembled so violently that even in the dim forest light it was obvious.

  “Noah, run…” the captive elf rasped.

  Noah? That sounded like a male name.

  Phil glanced again at the newcomer.

  Or maybe female?

  Two elven women might be even more entertaining than one.

  The orcs shifted into combat stances, ready to dodge a magical strike at any second.

  Nothing came.

  “It seems Noah has no magic,” Uruk sneered. “What a brave dark elf.”

  Contempt dripped from every word.

  “Go on. Attack your chief. No one interfere.”

  The orcs held their ground.

  The dark elf hesitated, locking eyes with the princess – who looked back with desperate pleading.

  Then, with a strained cry, he rushed forward, raising the dagger – if that toothpick could even be called a blade.

  Uruk caught his wrist at the last instant.

  A sharp crack echoed through the clearing.

  The arm bent at an unnatural angle.

  This time, the elf’s scream was very different.

  “Is she truly a princess?” Uruk sneered, gripping both elves in his massive hands as he turned back to his captive. “Your servant’s ready to give his life for you, dark bitch. Has fortune finally turned her gray snout toward Chief Uruk?”

  The princess swallowed.

  For a fleeting moment, Phil almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

  She had nearly killed his father – and the rest of the band. He did not consider them friends, and if they all died, he would not mourn long. It would simply be… inconvenient. The only one he truly missed was the shaman – his grandfather. The old orc had known countless stories and, perhaps, every sacred rite.

  Phil urged them to move immediately. A princess would be missed. She would be searched for.

  But who listened to Phil?

  Uruk had listened to the shaman.

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  It was good to be a shaman.

  Instead, Uruk ordered camp to be made on the spot. Even orcs – creatures of the night – needed rest. And now they had such a fine excuse.

  Phil watched as the others circled the cage holding the dark elves, their eyes gleaming with hunger. A great fire was lit. Khoron and Drok, the scouts, departed to hunt. Only they carried the massive black yew bows capable of felling even a chimera with a blue Ring.

  Uruk settled himself atop wild boar hides – the sacred totem animal of their clan – and muttered praise to the God of War. To capture a dark elven princess in an ordinary forest. And it was he, Uruk, who had taken her.

  At last, the chief rose and approached the cage.

  The princess sat pressed against the bars, frightened, clutching the other elf’s swollen arm.

  “What will you do with us?” she asked in Imperial. It must have cost her effort to keep her voice steady. Only Uruk and Phil understood her words.

  “Oh, believe me,” Uruk grinned, “you’re in for a lively night.”

  “You will not touch me,” she said suddenly, with absolute certainty.

  She had never expected to be captured. Even now she could not understand why her magical foresight had failed her. And yet she still did not feel true danger – and that confused her most of all. This could not truly be happening. She was used to her mischief going unpunished. Some stupid orcs could not possibly hold her.

  She was a princess.

  The orcs only grinned wider. Uruk dragged a thick finger across his own throat in a mocking gesture.

  “What? You will not touch me? I am the daughter – ”

  “You are nothing!” Uruk barked. “Now you’re just a bitch in the claws of a chief and his band. Your own fault.”

  “Wait! We cannot touch her!”

  Every head turned toward the speaker.

  Phil himself was startled by the sound of his own voice.

  A dozen hostile, hungry stares fixed on him. He rushed to speak before they decided to tear him apart.

  “Think, Chief! If we do anything to her – ”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Uruk smirked. “You’ll get little enough.”

  “I caught her,” Phil shot back.

  “And?” Uruk’s lips curled. “Have you forgotten the law of strength? The first fangs of the clan take the prize. Only then – ”

  “How much do you think her father would pay,” Phil pressed, “if something happened to her?”

  Uruk went still.

  He did not need to hear more.

  Orcs loved blood and crude pleasure – but they loved gold even more. And the runt was right. Elves understood pride. Uruk remembered the old tales. Their forefather, Garosh, had won many victories by exploiting elven honor.

  Yes. For a purebred princess, the ransom would be immense.

  Uruk surveyed his warriors and made his decision.

  “You may take the servant.”

  “No!” the princess screamed.

  Phil watched her face drain of color as the laughing orcs dragged the young elf from the cage by his legs. She lunged after him, but a massive hand shoved her back. Her head struck the bars with a dull clang.

  “Please… help him…” she whispered, looking straight at Phil.

  Phil felt nothing.

  Not for the servant. Not for the princess.

  At least, that was what he told himself.

  He still did not understand why he had spoken up for her before. He had risked his life. But the ransom would be large – very large.

  He only shrugged.

  “I saved you. I can’t influence him any further,” Phil tossed over his shoulder before dropping beneath a massive old tree and settling onto a soft pelt.

  “Let’s drink to the little bastard’s luck!” one of the orcs shouted.

  Phil didn’t react.

  He needed silence. Time to think.

  Why had he helped her? Why had he argued with the chief and risked his life? He did not know.

  In the quiet, he heard distant screams – the elven servant’s voice breaking somewhere beyond the firelight. Maybe they’re roasting him… probably tasty, a stray thought flickered through his mind.

  He also heard the princess crying. Then he caught himself hoping he would not dream. If his magic slipped loose in his sleep, that would be bad – especially without the sealing bracelet.

  He used to have it.

  Now he did not.

  With the screams rising and fading beneath the crackle of fire, Phil drifted into uneasy sleep.

  These were the worst days of her life.

  She had been thrown over a shoulder like a sack of grain. Every jolt sent pain lancing through the cuts on her body. She had no magic left to heal herself. And hanging upside down while the brute ran –

  This had to be a mistake. A misunderstanding. They would realize who she was and release her.

  They had to.

  But they did not listen.

  The orc’s hands were rough and unyielding, reeking of sweat, leather, and metal. He did not hear her. Or did not care.

  Even grown elves bowed their heads before the princess.

  Now she was handled like cargo.

  Her words were swallowed by the wind and lost beneath the heavy rhythm of marching boots.

  Anelle began watching the orcs closely – at close range – and each time she felt revulsion. They hunted crudely, like wild predators. Once she saw one dig open a small forest creature’s burrow, sever its head with a cleaver, take the carcass, and leave the trembling young inside without a glance.

  Worse was the way they prepared food. They built fires in the middle of the forest, unconcerned that the flames devoured whole patches of trees. They threw prey directly into the blaze or hung it over the flames until the meat blackened. All of it accompanied by savage growls and laughter that sounded less like joy and more like a challenge thrown at the world itself.

  In Anelle’s eyes, the orcs were creatures without harmony – beings who lived as if everything existed only to be consumed.

  Thinking about Noah was unbearable.

  It was impossible. They could not have killed him. Perhaps they had left him in the clearing. Perhaps he was already home by now. Just days ago, he had been telling her stories about ferrets in his family’s garden while she laughed and ate a travel pie.

  She wanted to cry.

  But no tears remained.

  Everything inside her collapsed when, during one halt, she saw her best friend’s head hanging from an orc’s belt.

  She vomited for more than an hour.

  Her magic was silent.

  As though she no longer belonged to the forest.

  The plants did not hear her. The orcs did not feel her.

  The world was nothing like the one Anelle had known. She understood now that she was weak. And with each passing day, her certainty that someone would rescue her faded.

  At first, she believed they would ransom her to her father.

  That hope died when the chief announced they would head for a slave market instead.

  They were afraid to approach the elven kingdom.

  These savage orcs were more cunning than she had believed. Especially the runt – Phil. The idea of the market had been his.

  If Anelle wished to survive – and one day take revenge – she would have to accept new rules.

  No tears. No reliance on anyone else.

  And when she stopped crying, she did not surrender.

  Something inside her simply changed.

  Perhaps the former princess had died in that forest beside her friend.

  Once, Phil handed her a clean strip of cloth to bind the wounds on her wrists. He seemed surprised that she did not beg to be freed.

  At stops, she received a thick slab of dried meat and a mug of water large enough to submerge her face.

  They dragged her north across barren lands where nothing had grown since ancient wars. Only scattered settlements adorned with skulls remained to remind travelers of the Horde’s former might.

  One day, a wolf rider caught up to them. Once, black orc riders had been an elite force, striking enemies from impossible angles. But this wolf looked old and mangy.

  When the one-eyed rider whispered something to Uruk, the band changed direction.

  The princess noticed the orcs’ dissatisfaction. They had wanted to return home. Instead, they received new orders.

  West.

  Toward the Human Empire?

  Why?

  They quickened their pace. Half-conscious from exhaustion, she no longer knew where they were taking her. Sleeping across the shoulder of the one she privately called “the Bench” was impossible.

  So she made herself a promise.

  One day, she would kill them all.

  “I said shut up.”

  The look in his eyes made her falter.

  It was too quiet.

  The camp – normally thick with snoring, crude laughter, the scrape of blades on whetstones – had fallen into a suffocating stillness. No crackle of fire. No distant curses. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

  Phil’s skin prickled.

  Then he heard it.

  A faint metallic hum.

  Not from the fortress.

  From above.

  He lifted his head slowly.

  The sky looked wrong.

  At first glance it was empty – gray, heavy clouds stretching from horizon to horizon. But something moved behind them. Shapes. Smooth. Too smooth to be beasts. Too controlled to be magic.

  The first explosion struck the outer ring of tents.

  There was no roar beforehand. No war cry. Just a white flash – and half a dozen orcs vanished in a blast of fire and shrapnel.

  For a heartbeat, the camp froze.

  Then chaos erupted.

  “Ambush!” someone screamed.

  Another explosion tore through a cluster of beastfolk. Bodies flew. Armor twisted like paper.

  Phil staggered back from the cage, ears ringing.

  This was not magic.

  Not the kind he knew.

  The blasts came from the sky – precise, coordinated. Something streaked downward in lines of fire. The ground trembled as if giants were pounding upon it.

  “Humans!” an orc roared in disbelief. “The fortress – !”

  The rest of his sentence dissolved in a spray of blood.

  Phil saw Uruk bellowing orders, his blue ring flaring as he tore a massive shield from the earth and hurled it upward. It shattered midair against something invisible. A second later, a spear of light pierced his shoulder and detonated behind him.

  The smell of burning flesh filled the air.

  Anelle gripped the bars of her cage.

  For the first time since her capture, her eyes were not filled with hatred – but with shock.

  “That’s not elven magic…” she whispered.

  More shapes descended through the clouds.

  Metal beasts.

  Not living.

  Not dead.

  Their surfaces gleamed like forged steel, their undersides blazing with controlled fire. They hovered, then angled downward, unleashing lines of searing light into the camp.

  Phil’s heart pounded.

  He had heard stories.

  Fortresses of men. Weapons that killed from afar. Thunder without lightning.

  But this –

  This was something else.

  The allied beastfolk broke first. Some fled toward the forest, only to be cut down by bursts of crackling energy from figures advancing on the ground.

  Humans.

  Armored not in leather or iron – but in strange black plates that hugged their bodies. And around several of their chests burned blue rings.

  Phil’s breath caught.

  Rings.

  Humans with rings.

  They moved like a single organism. Lines forming. Covering fire. Advancing step by step while the sky rained destruction.

  This was not a raid.

  It was extermination.

  Anelle watched the slaughter in stunned silence.

  For months she had imagined her people rescuing her – vines bursting from the earth, shadows swallowing her captors.

  Instead, death fell from the heavens in cold, calculated precision.

  One of the metal beasts hovered lower, and something dropped from its belly – small, spinning.

  Phil reacted on instinct.

  He lunged toward the cage, grabbed it by the side, and flipped it over just as the device hit the ground beside it.

  The explosion tore the air apart.

  The cage rolled. Anelle slammed against the bars. Phil felt heat rip across his back like claws of flame.

  For a moment, he tasted blood.

  When the ringing in his ears subsided, he realized something else.

  No one was attacking him.

  Not directly.

  The blasts avoided the cage now.

  The humans were targeting clusters of fighters, shamans, chiefs.

  Systematic.

  Deliberate.

  Anelle pushed herself upright inside the overturned cage.

  “You saved me,” she breathed, disbelief flickering across her face.

  Phil spat blood onto the dirt.

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  Through the smoke, figures approached – human soldiers moving with mechanical precision. Behind them, one stepped forward more slowly.

  A green ring burned around his chest.

  Stable.

  Controlled.

  Phil felt something cold settle in his gut.

  This was not a battlefield anymore.

  It was a hunt.

  Another band joined them soon after – this one led by a shaman.

  If she had her magic, Anelle would have assessed the threat instantly. But the enchanted collar could not be removed. Only the one who had cast the ancient spell could undo it. How simple orcs had obtained such a relic, she could not comprehend.

  She threw venomous glances at Phil, who always lingered at the rear. He was smarter than the others – and for that very reason, she wanted him dead most of all.

  A month must have passed. Perhaps more. She had grown accustomed to captivity: sleep once every three days, unfamiliar meat that twisted her stomach.

  Eventually, they stopped and made camp. A cage was built for the princess again, which meant they intended to remain here for some time. It was daylight; half the orcs collapsed into heavy sleep after the march, while the rest went scouting.

  Phil had never seen anything like this: beastfolk and orcs standing side by side without immediately tearing each other apart. The urge was there – of course it was – but whatever force compelled them to suppress ancient instincts had to be immense. The fear of Gao was beyond words.

  Ordinarily, orcs and beastfolk warred constantly. From childhood, every orc carried a vivid image of the enemy: a vicious, fanged creature able to move on four limbs or rise to two, steel claws or knuckle-blades strapped to its forelegs. Masters of concealment. Even physically weak humans possessed more honor than a beastman. Everyone knew the males bore black-red or white fur, while the females were usually black or deep blue.

  The place Uruk’s band had reached was already occupied by a massive combined camp of beastfolk and orcs. For the first time in his life, Phil witnessed the Lords of Death addressing allied races not with requests – but with commands. No one dared refuse. One did not argue with such beings. Few in the world held greater authority.

  No one knew what had unsettled the Death Lords, but it meant something.

  Had humans once again emerged from cities protected by ancient magic?

  From overheard conversations, it became clear that beastfolk and orcs had been attempting to storm a fortress for months. Their camp stood roughly an hour’s run away. And they had failed to take a small fortress for years? Orcs who, under shamanic protection, felt no sword wounds? Humans who were “one bite” at most?

  The shaman of the Bone-Tearers clan claimed a faint magical field radiated from the fortress. Externally, it was protected only by a magical dome – which meant artificers were inside. Even if those humans possessed magic, they were clearly untrained, and the fortress was no elite stronghold. Against warbands reinforced by a shaman, they should have stood no chance.

  Yet the fortress still stood.

  And no orc, even shielded, could approach it.

  Phil was left to guard his “trophy” while the others went scouting.

  “Hey, freak! I’m talking to you!” came a voice from the cage. “Why are you so stupid?”

  Phil remained silent. The elf could not unsettle him. His brothers-in-arms had treated him far worse.

  “Well? Talk to me, idiot. Do you know how boring it is in here? Why did we stop?”

  “You’d better keep quiet,” Phil said calmly, deliberately licking his lips to frighten her. Her constant taunts were tiresome. “Who knows what ideas might come to me.”

  “I’m just afraid,” Anelle said. She no longer feared death. Only the thirst for vengeance burned within her. “Look at yourself. You don’t resemble those terrifying orcs at all. Small. Weak…”

  “That’s because I’m a half-blood!” Phil snapped, stung. He knew he was smaller than the others, but he still considered himself an orc.

  “Half human? I thought your kind didn’t commit violence against their own. You have your females and – ”

  “Women! Not females! And my father loved Rayana.”

  “She was human?”

  “Yes. How did you guess?”

  “Even this,” the princess said, touching the collar that had once been Phil’s bracelet, “doesn’t stop me from feeling the echo of your magic when you’re near. Release me, and I’ll teach you whatever you desire. Your totem does not obey you, does it? Your ring is frozen at blue. You could control your power.”

  Phil understood she was trying to manipulate him.

  He froze – not because of her words, but because something had changed.

  A strange silence had fallen over the camp.

  “You could create like a true shaman,” the princess pressed on. “You could shape your magic – ”

  “Shut up!” Phil barked.

  “How dare you – ”

  “I said shut up!”

  The look in his eyes made her blood run cold.

  The forest had gone unnaturally still. Then he felt it – a sharp prick at the base of his neck. The world went black, and he collapsed without a sound.

  Two humans stepped out from between the trees, dressed in strange green uniforms. They carried no swords and wore no armor, and no aura of magic clung to them.

  The princess stared in shock.

  Either they were reckless fools…

  Or masters who concealed their strength.

  They spoke to each other in an unfamiliar language.

  “Look what we’ve got here. Pointy ears. An elf?” one of them grinned.

  “Seriously. And even… well-developed,” the other added.

  Anelle switched to Imperial at once.

  “Release me. There is a treaty between our peoples. You will be paid in gold.”

  “Listen to her chirping,” one of them said dryly.

  “And what about this freak?” the other asked, nodding toward Phil’s body.

  The first man shrugged, crouched down, and slid a long knife through a gap in the armor, driving it straight toward the heart.

  The body jerked once.

  No sound followed.

  “Damn it… there weren’t supposed to be arteries there.”

  Anelle felt her thoughts begin to fracture.

  The orc had died in his sleep.

  If these humans ruled dreams, then it was no wonder the fortress still stood.

  They bent the bars of the cage apart with practiced efficiency and gestured for her to follow.

  “She didn’t seem too fond of that gray mutant,” one of them muttered as he watched her strike the corpse several times between the legs.

  “Take her back to camp, Drozd. And keep the rifle ready. These animals might still be close.”