Orc

A cold wind cut through the furs draped over his shoulders, but Shak'rim stood motionless on the cliff's edge. Below, among the smoking ruins of the human settlement, chaos erupted—the cries of the wounded, the roars of his warriors, the crackling of burning buildings. The prophecy of the Dambrakh shaman echoed in his ears.

"A companion or a life partner among humans?" the iron clenched in his fist. But the shaman never lied. So Shak'rim couldn't help but notice the details: girls with keen gazes, young men with straight backs. No one. Not a single spark that would say—this is it. The chieftain's wife, the mother of his clan's future warriors, must be not a soft-bodied rabbit, but a lioness. And if a companion, then a brave warrior, the pillar of the clan.

The Guardian's outpost was ablaze. Its warriors echoed with cries of alarm, metal blazed in the fires of the walls. Shak'rim towered over the chaos. Until he saw "it." A tattered cloak, twisted behind his back as he ran. A dark figure raced through the fire. A clan warrior raised his axe, but the man rolled, throwing him into the void with a blow. Unarmed. There was a crunch. The orc's back hit the ground. Another spread his arms to grab him—the figure leaped onto his shoulders with playful anger, knocking him down with his knees. Then Lobekrush—his best axe thrower—lunged at the figure. A sharp kick to the knee, a half-turn. His orc fell like a felled tree.

"We must take him." It was an order to himself. Ironclad and unquestionable. His right hand touched the scar across the bridge of his nose—an old habit he'd developed when his thoughts demanded concentration. How? Persuasion? Ceremonies? Words from human fairy tales about meeting? His stomach clenched with disgust. In his world, encounters were simple: you're a stranger—they fight you. You're liked—they take you.

He didn't think, but snuck up behind her, grabbed her by the stomach, and slung her over his shoulder. The scent of pine and human sweat immediately hit his nostrils.

"You're coming with me, " he said curtly, carrying the "prey" over his shoulder and whistling for the wolf to mount.