“Lady Frax’mo warned you about the Reparations Penalty, didn’t she?” I ask, leaning forward, watching her wither beneath my gaze.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she whispers, her voice cracking, a drop of moisture in her right eye.
It’s an old tradition that dates back to the end of The Great War. Fifty lashes, one for each water reservoir poisoned by humans. The penalty seemed justified when it was being carried out by an orc woman with a womb ruined by the humans’ atrocities.
“Then do what all of your kind do,” I growl, waving a hand at her dismissively. “Fall to your knees. Cry. Beg me to spare you. Maybe if you shed enough tears for me to believe you’re truly sorry for what your people did, I’ll show mercy.”
I don’t respect tears or begging, but it’s a nice song to listen to. It’s been too long since I’ve heard it. If she’s convincing enough, I might stop when I draw blood. I’m the only one here, so I’ll have to punish her personally instead of handing her off to someone else, like I’ve done in the past. I don’t even like humans enough to whip them.
I wait for her to unravel as I watch the tear finally trickle down her cheek, leaving a trail in the paint. I can taste her fear now and it’s delicious. Her legs wobble, teasing me with the submission she’s desperate to embrace. But instead of falling, she straightens. She meets my gaze again, a hint of defiance behind her terrified stare.
“I’m sorry for what humans did to your people, Your Majesty. Truly,” she says. “But I wasn’t alive then, and begging won’t change what happened. If you intend to punish me for what my ancestors did, I’ll take it with as much dignity as I can.”
Not what I expected. Most humans aren’t this brave. Even if Clover was warned about me by Lady Frax’mo, I offered mercy. That should be enough to put her on her knees. For the first timein two hundred years, a human disappoints me by refusing to be exactly what I expect.
“Then you’ll be punished. Fifty lashes, just like every other human,” I growl, rising to my feet, towering over the girl at the base of my throne.
I take the stairs down from the raised platform slowly and with purpose. Not because I’m in my final days. I may be the oldest living orc, but I’ll be a match for any of my kind until the Twelve Gods call me home. I just want to see her reaction. Watch the terror bloom in her eyes when she realizes this is really happening.
But she doesn’t move. She’s so scared her legs are shaking, but she refuses to fall to her knees. Refuses to beg for mercy. Is it true bravery or foolishness? Maybe it’s time to let the whip decide.
“You will regret not begging for mercy when I still cared enough to listen to your pleas,” I growl, not showing any pity at all as I roughly grab her right arm, dragging her behind me as I walk toward a door on the right side of my throne room.
She whimpers from the pressure on her arm, so I tighten my grip, just so she’ll whimper louder. I drag her through one door, then another. She finds her footing and is practically running along helplessly, unable to match my stride. No human can, and I’m not even trying to move fast.
She loses a shoe and reaches for it, but I yank her toward the door to my dungeon. We kept some humans down here during the war. That was the only part of Zrogmul they ever saw. Taking prisoners during war isn’t our way, but after the virus, my peopleneeded to see some of them suffer for their crimes. Death felt too kind when the wounds were so fresh.
“Down the stairs,” I rumble, holding onto her arm so she doesn’t go down them headfirst.
The artificial torches ignite as we approach them, lighting the way, casting the dungeon in an eerie glow once we get to the bottom of the stairs. The dark stone walls are rough and ancient, built when Zrogmul was a true fortress rather than a tomb filled with ghosts. Iron rings protrude from the walls at shoulder height.Orcshoulder height, which means they’re far above the human girl’s head. Rusted chains dangle from some, swaying slightly.
Dark stains mark the floor. Old blood that never fully washed away, worn into the stone by time and trampling feet. Cell doors line both walls, heavy iron the strongest human couldn’t open, a small, barred window providing the only light a prisoner ever sees. Most of the doors are hanging open now to reveal the empty darkness within. Some still have scratch marks, where desperate humans clawed their skin to bone in a futile attempt to free themselves.
The air is cold and damp, carrying the scent of earth, metal, and ancient suffering. Water drips somewhere in the distance, a steady rhythm that echoes off the walls. Everything is covered in a thin layer of dust and cobwebs, signs that no one has walked these floors in years.
But the whipping cross at the end of the corridor is still there, waiting. The metal has been worn smooth by bodies pressed against it, with iron rings for binding arms, legs, necks, and any other part of their body that doesn’t hold still. The floor around the whipping cross is darker than the rest, stained by the bloodthat ran like rivulets from bodies the whip had not finished breaking.
I can feel Clover trembling in my tight grasp. At the sight of the whipping cross and all the whips and collars hanging on the wall next to it, sheshouldbe afraid. Some of the whips are just wide lengths of coiled leather. Some are braided and knotted to inflict more suffering. The cruelest one has bone fragments and sharp metal woven into the braids.
“Have you ever been whipped before?” I ask, examining the soft skin her dress doesn’t hide, not seeing any scars.
“No, Your Majesty,” she whispers, her voice cracking, fear choking her as she tries to keep her mask of bravery intact. “But I’ve seen other people whipped.”
“Criminals, I’m sure,” I growl, dragging her the rest of the way to the whipping cross. “Even worse than regular humans.”
She doesn’t fight when I place her hands in position. I don’t even have to hold them there. Her hands tremble when I secure them with the leather restraints. The oil we use preserves the leather and keeps it soft, but I’m sure her wrists will be bleeding like her back when I’m done.
“Not criminals, Your Majesty,” she says, sniffling as she tests the restraints. “Just scared, innocent people.”
“If they weren’t criminals, then why were they whipped?” I ask, lowering myself to a knee so I can restrain her ankles.
“To send a message,” she says, now trembling from head to toe. “When a second-born tried to run in order to avoid being auctioned, their families were whipped in front of them after they were captured.”
I finish binding her ankles and rise, considering what she said as I take a step back. It seems humans have gotten even crueler since The Great War. That doesn’t stop me from putting a leather collar around her neck and attaching it to the iron ring, ensuring she’ll suffer and choke if she dares to collapse before I’m done whipping her.
“Did you ever try to run?” I ask, grabbing the back of her dress and ripping it open from the bottom of her neck to the curve of her ass, revealing a corset.
“No, Your Majesty,” she whimpers, trembling so hard it takes some effort to loosen her corset enough to tear it off her fragile frame. She tries to look back at me, but the collar keeps her from turning her head much. “I couldn’t do that to my family. They didn’t have a choice in how things worked any more than I did.”
