And then… there had been the shadows.
They had writhed around him, alive and hungry, pressing close as though they longed to pour themselves into her lungs and suffocate her where she lay. They had answered to him as though he were their master, their vessel.
Death made flesh.
If you want to live, then you will not resist.
The words echoed in her skull, cold and final, as though they had been carved into stone.
Eliza drew in a careful breath. The blade was still close, his grip still iron, the shadows still curling at the edges of her vision like smoke. Every instinct in her screamed to speak, to fight, to lash out with something. But not now. Not when his strength so easily eclipsed hers.
So she kept her mouth shut.
And she nodded.
The smallest dip of her chin, slow and measured, never breaking eye contact. A gesture of compliance—but not surrender.
She gasped when the blade finally lifted from her throat. The cold edge left her skin, but the memory of it lingered, sharp and burning.
Silence weighed thick and heavy between them, a suffocating blanket that seemed to merge with the shadows writhing aroundhim. They curled and shifted like living things, whispering against the stone, feeding off the fear that gripped her chest.
Eliza's pulse hammered, though she forced herself to keep still, to study him through the haze of terror.
He was clad in black from throat to boots, armor muted to shadow, every line of him built for stealth and death. His face was hidden behind a mask, yet his form betrayed enough: broad shoulders, corded muscle, a frame that dwarfed her bed, her chamber, the very air. He was massive.
All orc.
Long black hair spilled loose, brushing his shoulders, shifting faintly as the shadows stirred around him. His eyes glowed through the slits of his mask, luminous blue—dangerous, unnatural. Power radiated from them, the mark of his magic, his strength.
An utterly terrifying being.
And then he moved.
Swiftly. Precisely. His hand went to his waist, pulling free a coil of rope. The shadows seemed to shiver in approval as the length unfurled, heavy and deliberate in his grasp.
Fear clawed at her chest, threatening to choke her, but she forced herself to stay still. Every instinct screamed at her to fight, to thrash, to run—but reason burned colder in her mind. It was obvious what he meant to do. Bind her. Claim her as his captive. And however degrading that was, it was still better than death.
"Roll over," he commanded, voice harsh as gravel. "Onto your stomach."
She considered resisting. She thought of clawing, of screaming, of one last desperate attempt. But the memory of his strength silenced the thought. The crushing grip on her wrist. The shadows writhing at his call. He could kill her before she drew a single breath to cry out. Resisting would be suicide.
So she rolled over, slow and deliberate, the furs sliding with her, cocooning her for one last heartbeat of concealment.
And then?—
He whipped the covers back in a single, ruthless motion. The night air struck her skin, cold against her bare arms and through the thin fabric of her nightgown. She stiffened, suddenly aware of how vulnerable she was in her sleeping attire, biting down against the instinct to cover herself.
The rope rasped as he looped it around her wrists behind her back. Rough, unyielding. His hands were efficient, merciless, pulling the bindings tight until the fibers dug into her skin. Each tug stole more of her freedom, each knot tied with a finality that sent her pulse racing.
She clenched her jaw, swallowing her fear, refusing to make a sound.
His hands moved swiftly, efficient and unrelenting. The rope wound higher, binding her arms all the way up to the elbows until she could scarcely twitch her fingers. The pressure bit into her flesh, locking her limbs in place. When he was satisfied, he severed the rope with a clawed edge, the fibers snapping with a dull hiss.
Then he gripped her ankles. In moments, those too were bound tight, the coarse strands digging against her skin, leaving her utterly powerless.
Thoughts rushed through her mind, a torrent she could barely contain. She had no idea what he was going to do with her. Would he keep her as his own? Drag her into some dungeon to be tortured until she broke? Use her as a pawn—bait for the orcs to negotiate against her people?
Perhaps it would have been better if she had just accepted death.
