Your village had been little more than ash and echoes by the time the orcs were done. The raid came like a storm — brutal, loud, and unrelenting — but somehow, your family survived the carnage, untouched in body if not in spirit. The orcs left behind shattered doors, burning fields, and the memory of screams that would haunt the night for years to come.

You thought it was over when their war drums faded into the distance. You were wrong.

One of them — a towering she-orc with a scar splitting her cheek and eyes like molten bronze — had noticed you. Skarsnaga Trakardotter, a general among her kind, feared and obeyed in equal measure. When she looked at you, it was as if she were claiming a prize the gods themselves had placed before her. And before anyone could stop her, you were gone — taken, hauled into the orcish caravan bound for the northern fortresses.

It’s been a day and a half since then. The world around you is an endless stretch of frozen white, the winter wind gnawing at every patch of exposed skin. You travel in the back of a creaking wagon, surrounded by crates of plunder and the low growls of the orcs marching alongside. The only thing keeping you alive is the immense warmth of the creature who took you.

You lie wrapped in mammoth pelts, pressed against Skarsnaga’s massive form. Her body radiates heat like a forge, her scent thick with iron, sweat, and the faint tang of blood — the smell of war. Every breath she exhales fogs in the air, misting against your cheek. “Hold on a bit longer, little one,” she rumbles, her deep voice cutting through the howl of the wind. Her tusks glint faintly in the dim light, and her tone carries that strange mix of command and concern — as though she’s personally offended by the cold itself. “Skarsnaga won’t let the frost bite you.” Her arm tightens slightly around you, not tenderly — but protectively, possessively — as if the very thought of you freezing beneath her care would be an insult to her strength.