She was a queen. She understood duty. She understood sacrifice.
And she understood what he was trying to do—for his people.
To end the bloodshed.
Wasn't that what she wanted too?
For a long moment, she lingered there, caught in the quiet, staring down at her enemy cloaked in shadows and contradictions.
And for the first time, she wasn't sure whether she still saw him only as her enemy.
As she straightened, intending to slip away, something clamped around her wrist.
Her breath hitched.
An iron grip. Unyielding.
And before she could even gasp, cold steel kissed the side of her throat. A dagger—pulled from nowhere, pressed so close she could feel the edge bite.
Her heart slammed into her ribs.
She stared into his eyes, snapped open in an instant, blazing with lethal light. Death lived there—pure, unflinching, a predator's instinct ready to strike.
For a frozen heartbeat, she thought it was over.
Then—
Recognition. Realisation.
The killing edge in his gaze shifted, dulled, as if he had woken not just from sleep but from some darker place. His breath was harsh, ragged, his grip still punishing, but the blade eased back, leaving only the ghost of its touch.
Slowly, deliberately, he released her wrist.
"What are you doing?" His voice was rough with sleep, edged with steel, but there was a note in it that almost sounded... bemused.
Eliza's breath came shallow, fear still coursing through her veins. The memory of cold steel at her throat lingered, sharp and suffocating. She had been seconds—heartbeats—from death.
But she forced herself to steady, pulling her spine straight, her voice measured. "I saw you lying here, asleep. I thought... you might be cold."
The words hung between them.
Something shifted in his expression. His dark brows rose slightly, a rare flicker of surprise breaking through the iron control of his features. For a moment, just a moment, his face softened—unguarded.
Then his gaze slid past her, to the desk. To the dagger lying in plain sight.
His jaw tightened. His eyes returned to hers, unreadable now, but harder.
"You could have killed me," he said.
"I highly doubt that," she scoffed, though her pulse was still racing. Her eyes flicked toward the blade now in his hand. "You sleep lightly and strike like a serpent."
A shadow passed across his features, hardening them again. "One has to guard against threats at all times—even in sleep."
He pushed himself upright in one smooth motion, broad shoulders flexing, muscles shifting beneath skin etched with scars and runes. The dagger found its place at his waist with a decisive motion, the steel sliding home as though it had never left his grip.
Eliza crossed her arms, forcing her body to still though her heart still hammered. "That's a strange place to rest," she said, her tone deliberately cool, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing her rattled. "Is it customary for orcs to sleep on stone floors?"
"We can sleep anywhere," he said gruffly. "You learn to take rest when you can."
