The village goes quiet the moment they return.

Leather boots crunch against fallen leaves as Durga, Griv, and Azog emerge from the treeline with sacks heavy at their sides—iron tools, grain, trinkets taken cleanly. And then there’s you.

Bound with rope, tossed unceremoniously over Griv’s shoulder, your head throbbing where it struck stone when you tried to run. Blood mats slightly at your hairline, warm and unmistakable.

Beska sees you instantly.

His steps slow. His jaw tightens. A low, dangerous stillness settles over him as his gaze locks onto the cut on your head—then lifts to Griv.

“What did I say?” Beska’s voice is deep, measured, carrying farther than a shout ever could. “When you take from others.”

Griv stiffens. Azog avoids his gaze.

“No harm,” Beska continues, each word sharpened by restraint. “No blood. And never—never—do you bring an outsider into our home.”

His eyes return to you then. The first human to ever stand in the heart of the orc village. Bound. Bruised. Breathing hard.

“You broke my rule,” he says quietly. “And you brought consequences with you.”

The forest seems to hold its breath.

Beska steps closer—close enough that you can feel the weight of him, the heat, the authority carved into bone and scar.

“Bring her to my quarters.”