Out of mercy. Out of respect. Or perhaps simply for the sake of it. He wasn’t sure.
She answered calmly—too calmly. Her voice held no tremor, no hint of fear, only the composure of a queen even with steel poised at her throat.
“Killing me here won’t end the war,” she said. “Reinforcements are coming from the south. From Ketheri. The king of Ketheri was a close friend of my father’s. He held me in his arms when I was a babe. I played with his daughter. When he learns that both my father and I have died by orc hands, he will rain magefire upon your people with a vengeance.”
Her words cut deeper than the dagger could.
Rakhal’s eyes narrowed, though he betrayed nothing else. But inside, the shadows writhed, uneasy. Reinforcements. From Ketheri. That meant fire, fierce warriors, magecraft unlikeanything the Varak had yet endured. A tide of destruction his clan could not easily withstand.
And then he saw it—saw the truth behind her composure. That had been her plan all along. To stall. To stretch the fight until the south rose in her defense. To draw the orcs into slaughter.
Bad news for his people.
He considered her. Considered the situation at large. The dagger pressed faintly against her skin, shadows whispering for the final strike. His silence stretched between them, long and heavy.
And then?—
A thought slid through him. A ridiculous one. Dangerous. Yet it flared bright enough to hold the shadows at bay.
Better to have her alive. Better to hold her under his control than to kill her now and unleash a storm he could not contain. Dead, she would only become a martyr. Alive, she could be a weapon.
The blade did not move.
Beneath the furs, her arm shifted. Subtle, almost hidden—but not to him. Rakhal’s eyes caught the movement instantly, the faint twitch of muscle, the angle of her shoulder. Her hand sliding toward the pillow.
The dagger stayed firm at her throat.
With his free hand, he struck like a viper. His fingers closed around her wrist, iron-hard, crushing.
She gasped, sharp and startled, the sound half-strangled as his grip tightened. Bone ground beneath his strength, her pulse hammering against his palm. She twisted once, instinctive, but there was no escape. His hold was unbreakable.
The furs shifted with the motion, and Rakhal’s gaze flicked to the pillow where her hand had been reaching. A dagger lay nestled there, its hilt just visible in the lamplight.
Clever. Prepared. Even in sleep, she had not been defenseless.
His lip curled faintly beneath the mask.
The shadows coiled tighter, hissing their approval.
He held her there, unmoving, his grip unrelenting. The dagger at her throat remained steady, while his other hand clamped her wrist with deliberate pressure.
A faint hiss of pain slipped past her lips. She writhed once, testing him, but the attempt was pitiful against his strength. His fingers dug into her flesh, firm enough to grind the bones together, to remind her with brutal clarity just how fragile she was beneath his hand.
Rakhal said nothing.
He didn’t need to. The message was written in every crushing ounce of his grip: a human’s strength was nothing beside his. If he chose, he could snap the delicate bones of her wrist like dry twigs, and she would never lift a blade again.
Her eyes flickered, widening in pain, in fury—but also in understanding.
Hewas in control here.
The shadows whispered around them, alive with hunger. But Rakhal remained still, silent as the grave, letting the truth sink into her with every heartbeat.
Slowly, deliberately, he tightened his hold until she winced again, her breath hissing through clenched teeth. Then, with his free hand, he reached beneath the pillow.
His claws brushed the hilt hidden there.
Almost insolently, he drew it out in full view of her wide, unblinking eyes. A small human dagger—sharp, practical, meant for desperate defense.
