Her voice rose on that last word, sharp, demanding, as if sheer outrage could pierce through the wall of his calm.
"It's true," he answered coldly. "I was sent to kill you. To end the war for good. But the reality is that even with your death, the fighting wouldn't have ended. Your father's death didn't change a thing. When you told me about the Ketheri, I realised a different solution was needed. Your tongue saved your life, Eliza Ducanis. And now…" His eyes darkened, his voice dropping lower. "…I will keep you alive—if you do exactly as I say."
She stared up at him, searching his face for something—anything. A flicker of mercy, a spark of doubt, some trace of humanity that might make sense of this impossible bargain.
But there was nothing.
Just the cold, hard lines of calculation.
Of course. He was an orc. Why should he get sentimental over her—a human? One of the humans who had driven his kind into battle for years. For generations.
The words slipped from her before she could stop them, born of a sharp, reckless curiosity.
"Do you not hate me?" she asked suddenly.
His dark eyebrows rose, the faintest shift of expression—as if her bluntness had surprised him. Or perhaps… impressed him.
"Hate?" he repeated, the word rolling low from his chest.
At his feet, the shadows stirred, restless, writhing as though the very question had roused them. Their tendrils stretched and curled along the stone floor, reaching for the edges of the firelight.
Eliza swallowed hard, her heart hammering as she watched them twist and coil, their silent movements echoing the tension in his voice.
"There was a time when I would have hated you," Rakhal said, his voice low and cold. "But that time has long since passed. You and your people have caused me anger, yes… but not hate. You haven't earned my hate."
"What would it take to earn it?" she asked, the question escaping before she could stop it. "We've killed your people. You've killed ours. Isn't that enough?"
His eyes darkened. "Hate requires passion. I left that behind long ago. What remains is purpose. Calculation. The clear sight to see what must be done, regardless of personal feeling."
Eliza shook her head slowly, disbelief tightening her chest. She couldn't fathom him. She had always been taught that orcs were mindless berserkers, creatures who lived for blood and battle, who cared nothing for strategy or reason.
But this male…
He was much more complicated than she had ever imagined.
And that unsettled her more than any roaring brute on the battlefield ever could.
Her anger rose hot and sudden, burning away the edge of fear. He had been sent to kill her. Coldly, deliberately, as a matter of strategy. And now he stood before her, his face unmasked, declaring that he would keep her alive, that she was no longer an enemy but a tool.
Not revenge. Not hate.
Calculation.
The realization turned her stomach, fury sparking in her veins. She wasn't a queen to him.
She was just a pawn.
"My people will soon discover I'm gone, if they haven't already," she said, forcing her voice to steady, forcing threat intoevery syllable. "It won't take them long to suspect foul play—on your side. My war mages will rain magefire on the plains."
She leaned forward slightly, meeting his black gaze without flinching.
"And if they don't find me—if I'm declared missing or dead—my cousin Thelius will take the crown. And he is… rash. Hotheaded. Easily influenced. The High Mage Darvus will seize him like a puppet, and Darvus will convince him to throw everything into one final, bloody battle."
Her pulse raced, but she pressed on, letting the words spill like knives.
"I've held the council back until now. I've made them see that the cost of life would be too great—on both sides. But Thelius and Darvus are not cautious. They would grind a thousand souls beneath their boots to attain victory. They would scorch the earth so nothing grows again for a thousand years. They don't care if there's nothing left to fight for—so long as they win."
The firelight crackled, filling the silence her words left behind.
