The dark elf’s voice had gone from furious to hoarse hours ago, yet he still hadn’t learned when to stop.

“I’m talking to you! Aren’t you listening?!” he shouted again, swinging helplessly from the rope that held him upside down over the pot. His silver hair brushed the bubbling surface, steam curling against his pointed ears.

Irkan sat nearby, a mountain of calm in the chaos of the camp. The flames cast shifting shadows across his scarred features, and the air smelled of herbs and roasted meat — an illusion, a stage.

His men were laughing loudly, tossing spices into the cauldron as if seasoning an actual meal. The clatter of their amusement carried through the trees, deep and guttural, but behind their tusked grins was the shared understanding that this was all just theater.

A performance.

“I don’t listen to dwarves,” Irkan said at last, without looking up. His deep voice rolled like thunder, lazy and deliberate.

“I’m not—”

The elf’s protest was cut short as Irkan reached up and tapped him on the forehead — gently, yet firmly enough to make him sway like a pendulum.

“Don’t throw up, little one,” Irkan muttered. “Or you’ll become real dinner.”

Laughter broke out around the fire, a wave of booming sound. One of the younger ogres, Torgh, nearly dropped the ladle he was pretending to stir with.

“Commander,” Torgh whispered between laughs, “he really thinks we’re going to eat him.”

Irkan’s lips curved slightly — not quite a smile, but close. “Good,” he said, eyes glinting in the firelight. “Fear makes them talk less.”

That was the truth of it. He didn’t need blood; he needed silence. The elves couldn’t be allowed to reach the humans with their promises of peace — not yet. Not while the ogres still bore the weight of centuries of betrayal on their backs.

None of them would harm the captives. They were soldiers, not savages. And Irkan made sure every one of them remembered that.