I weigh options in the space of a heartbeat. Lie and risk discovery when the truth becomes obvious. Tell the truth and risk—what? He just killed Keepers. That makes him an enemy of the cult. Which could make him an ally.
Or could make him something worse. Another predator who wants something from me. Another set of hands reaching for control.
I look at his face—really look. The crooked nose, broken and badly reset. The filed-down tusks, practical rather than decorative. The weariness in every line of his expression, the crushing exhaustion that comes from hard work done too long without rest.
He doesn’t look like a zealot. Doesn’t have the fever-bright certainty of the Abbot’s followers. He looks like a man doing a job. A bloody, brutal job, but nothing personal.
“Escapee.” The words come out steady. “Since I was fifteen.”
Something flickers in his expression. Gone before I can name it.
He sheathes his blade across his back—the motion smooth, practiced, the leather harness creaking as it takes the sword. His hands come up empty. A deliberate gesture. Non-threatening.
It doesn’t make me feel safer. I’ve learned that hands aren’t the only weapons men carry.
“The warlord’s army sent me to burn the place.” His gaze drops to my arms, cataloging the blood, the torn skin, the evidence of my desperate flight. “You know the layout?”
Burn the place.
The words hit me like water after a drought. Someone finally came. After years of the cult spreading its influence through the region, poisoning trade routes, harvesting souls from isolated villages—someone finally decided to end it.
And they sent an executioner.
Not soldiers. Not healers. Not anyone who would need the inhabitants of that place tosurviveand testify. Someone had paid specifically for fire and silence, and I was standing in the dark trying to decide if that mattered when the alternative was no fire at all.
“I know every stone.” I step closer before I can stop myself. “Every passage, every patrol route. I mapped it all. Years of waiting for?—”
I bite off the words. Too much. Too fast. He doesn’t need my desperation. He just needs my intel.
The orc’s attention sharpens. I feel it—the assessment, clinical and thorough, taking in more than just my appearance.He’s reading my stance, my posture, the way I hold myself despite the trembling.
“Waiting for what?”
For someone to care. For someone to stop them. For a chance—any chance—to make them pay.
“For the right opportunity.” I keep my voice flat. “This seems like it.”
Silence stretches between us. The forest presses close, the Bloom’s spores drifting on currents of air I can’t feel. My skin prickles with heightened sensation—the brush of my clothing against wounds, the cool night air against exposed skin, the orc’s presence radiating something that might be heat or might be danger.
He’s watching me the way I imagine he watches everyone. Cataloging threats. Measuring weaknesses. Deciding if I’m useful or just another obstacle to remove.
I refuse to look away first.
“You’re shaking.” His observation holds no sympathy. Just fact.
“I’ve been running for hours. The Bloom’s spores are thick tonight. My body thinks it wants to go back.” I bare my teeth in something that isn’t quite a smile. “My body is wrong.”
That flicker again. Interest, maybe. Or recognition. Someone seeing a wound they recognize.
“The Abbot.” The name tastes like poison on my tongue. “Father Verantus. That’s who you’re here to kill?”
“Among others.”
“I want to watch.” The words spill out before I can weigh them. “His death. I want to see it happen.”
The orc goes very still. Not with surprise—with consideration. He’s measuring me again, and this time I know what he sees. The hatred. Pure and undiluted, rooted in bone.
“That’s your price?” he asks. “For the intelligence?”
