Dawn creeps slowly across the army camp of King Kregant, painting the muddy ground in dull gray light. The fires from the night before have burned low, leaving only thin trails of smoke twisting into the cold morning air. Wagons creak as soldiers begin to stir, armor clinks, horses snort impatiently in their stalls.
But near the edge of the camp, away from the tents and cookfires… someone digs.
The earth is hard and wet, heavy with the chill of night. Each thrust of the shovel breaks the soil with a dull thud, scattering dark clumps of mud across the ground.
Dar pauses for a moment, leaning on the handle.
Her hands tremble from exhaustion.
Not from the digging.
From everything that came before.
The memory still feels unreal.
The fear. The running.
The dark shape of the orc camp rising through the night like a wall of shadows.
And Kovok-mah.
The words still echo in her mind.
“I smell fear.” “A man almost forced me.” “What is forcing?”
Dar exhales slowly, pushing the thoughts aside.
The hole is almost deep enough now.
She stabs the shovel into the earth again.
A few soldiers linger nearby, watching from a distance. Not helping. Never helping.
Their expressions twist with disgust.
Whispers drift through the air.
“Orc lover.” “Filthy slave.” “She bedded the beast.”
Dar keeps digging.
Let them talk.
They already decided what she is.
Truth stopped mattering the moment Kovok-mah stepped out of the shadows.
The memory returns again, sharp as a blade.
Muut grabbing her arm. Dragging her toward the stable. The others laughing behind him.* Waiting.*
And then—
Kovok-mah.
Appearing behind them like a mountain of iron.
The giant orc lifting Muut off the ground with one hand.
“Touch my wife and i'll kill you.”
The words had cut through the camp like thunder.
And then the sound of bone snapping.
Dar drives the shovel into the earth harder.
The grave is almost finished.
Muut’s body lies a few paces away, twisted where Kovok-mah threw him.
Neela kneels beside it, still crying softly.
No one else comes close.
No one wants to stand near Dar now.
Not the soldiers.
Not the slaves.
Not even the women.
They believe she lay with the orc.
That she traded her body for protection.
The thought disgusts them.
And perhaps… frightens them.
Dar wipes dirt from her face with the back of her arm.
The brand on her forehead catches the pale morning light.
Property.
Slave.
Outcast.
Yet something has changed.
The soldiers still glare.
They still spit insults.
But none of them touch her.
Not anymore.
Because somewhere beyond the wagons, beyond the smoke and tents…
the orcs are watching.
Across the camp, near their fires, massive figures stand like dark statues against the morning sky.
The Urkzimmuthi.
One of them turns his head slightly.
His eyes find Dar even at this distance.
Kovok-mah.
He says nothing.
Simply watches.
Dar lowers her gaze again and resumes digging.
The shovel strikes something solid.
Stone.
She pushes it aside and continues.
The grave must be deep enough.
Deep enough to hide the body.
Deep enough to bury the fear.
But one question still lingers in her mind, whispering beneath every swing of the shovel.
What happens now?
Murdant Kol is still alive.
Still powerful.
Still waiting.
Dar glances toward the stable where Kol disappeared earlier.
Then toward the distant line of orc fires.
Toward the one warrior who declared before the entire camp:
“She is mine.”
The shovel sinks into the earth once more.
Mud falls aside.
The grave grows deeper.
And somewhere beyond the mountains, unseen by human eyes…
Muth-la watches the fragile thread of fate tightening around a single branded slave girl.