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I pray that one day, she will find her way from here. Perhaps the handsome human prince she dreamed of will come and rescue her.
A growl bubbles up in my throat. The nearby guard eyeballs me and hefts his club in a warning.
Bron is at her side, shielding her from the crowd. Likewise, some of the other orcs I’ve worked alongside since I joined Edwin’s home stand attentively near. They are my brothers, and I’m grateful they are there. Yet the thought of any other, man or orc, touching her brings my rage to the surface, albeit that it’s irrational when I can no longer protect her and that I want her to be loved and safe.
Selfishly, I wallow in the delusion that she was meant for me and only me; that no one else could care for her as well as I do.
There are fresh tears on her face, and I hate that my actions have put them there.
The official finishes his speech.
I’m escorted up the steps.
My feet are suddenly heavy, reluctant. I hold myself together, but only just.
I wish she wasn’t here.
I wish she wasn’t going to see this.
I wish a thousand things that shall now never be mine.
Look away,I silently plead.
She does not, and I feel the world grow cold as the noose is placed around my neck. It is made from a thick, sturdy, coarse rope that will bear my weight. My ankles are bound together before they check my wrists again to make sure that they are also secure.
More words are spoken, but I cannot hear them over the ringing in my ears.
Then, the platform beneath my feet falls. The crowd gasps as I drop. A moment of brief weightlessness before the rope snaps around my neck. A dreadful gurgling sound escapes my lips. The strain is monstrous, and it has only just begun. The crowd turns into a kaleidoscope of colors as I spin upon the rope. Instinctively, I tug against the bindings on my wrists and thrash.
A great clamor penetrates the ringing in my ears—the sick crowd cheering, perhaps?
I spin wildly, even as I coach myself to submit to my fate.
The clamor rises.
Something sounds off, although I cannot work out what it is. Perhaps it is just the effect of the blood pounding in my ears.
Cold sweat bathes my body as I thrash.
Shouts penetrate the fog: a wild jumble of sound that I cannot make sense of, as dots sparkle before my eyes.
My breathing is harsh and strained. My strong body is not ready to accept death. Nor is my mind.
I convince myself that if I could only cease my thrashing, I might catch a glimpse of her again.
But I no longer have command over myself and continue to fight.
The clamor grows louder, wilder, and I wonder if something is wrong with me—if I am dying quicker than an orc usually might; if my shifter blood makes me weaker—for something is assuredly amiss.
Then the rope jerks. I drop a small distance and then the rope yanks on my neck again. The pain is so great it renders me temporarily blind.
The rope jerks again, and this time, I drop and drop. My knees buckle as I hit solid ground. I collapse to my side, my head ringing as it connects against the gritty earth with acrack.
My vision is restored briefly as colors move in and out of my view. The discordant clamor manifests into the scuffle, thuds, and clangs of close fighting.
“You’re a tough bastard, and you’re not going to die,” a voice tells me. The noose loosens, and I blink the world back into view.
The warlord?
