Chapter 1

Selene

The sentry tower burns behind me, orange flames licking the night sky like desperate fingers. My bare feet slam against the rocky ground, each step sending shockwaves of pain up my legs. The iron shackles around my ankles clank with every stride—a death knell that'll bring them straight to me if I don't move faster.

Run. Just run.

The desert scrub tears at my legs, drawing fresh blood to mix with the old. My lungs burn, each breath a ragged gasp that tastes of smoke and copper. Behind me, the death camp erupts in chaos—shouting voices, the thunder of boots, the sharp crack of whips cutting air instead of flesh for once.

I stumble over a root and nearly go down, my hands scraping against thorned zabilla as I catch myself. The sticky sap clings to my palms, but I don't stop to let it work on the cuts. Can't stop. Won't stop.

The guard's blood is still under my fingernails.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I weave between the meqixste trees, their gnarled branches casting twisted shadows in the moonlight. The Lunar Goddess bathes everything in silver, and I curse her for it. Too bright. They'll see me too easily.

A howl cuts through the night—not human, not orc. Worgs. Of course they'd set the worgs loose.

I press myself against a boulder, chest heaving, and listen. Distant shouts grow fainter, but the wet panting of the pack grows closer. My throat constricts. I've seen what worgs do to escapees. What's left barely qualifies as human.

Move.

I push off from the rock and sprint deeper into the scrub, ignoring the way my vision blurs at the edges. When did I last eat? Two days ago? Three? Hard to keep track when survival becomes the only currency that matters.

A branch catches my hair, yanking my head back. I bite down on a scream and tear free, leaving copper strands behind like breadcrumbs. The brand on my collarbone throbs, the ancient mark burning as if it remembers being carved into my flesh with red-hot iron.

Another howl, closer this time.

I scramble up a steep incline, my fingers digging into loose rock and dirt. Pebbles cascade down behind me with each desperate grab for purchase. At the top, I risk a glance back toward the camp. The tower still burns, but smaller fires have broken out across the compound. Good. Let it all burn.

The descent on the other side nearly kills me. I half-slide, half-fall down the rocky slope, my skin tearing on jagged stones. Pain becomes background noise—just another sensation to catalog and ignore. At the bottom, I find myself in a narrow ravine filled with fylvek grass. Perfect.

I grab handfuls of the healing plant and press them against the worst of my cuts. The immediate sting gives way to blessed numbness. Not a cure, but it'll keep me moving.

The worgs' howls echo off the ravine walls now, distorted and multiplied until it sounds like a dozen packs instead of one. I wade through the knee-high grass, heading for the far end where moonlight hints at an opening.

Don't look back. Don't think about what happens if they catch you.

But I do think about it. I think about the other girls who tried to run. About Mira, who made it three miles before they dragged her back. About what they did to her in front of the rest of us as a lesson.

I think about the guard whose throat I opened with a shard of metal I'd been sharpening for weeks. The surprise in his eyes when the blade found its mark. The way he'd grabbed at his neck like he could hold his life in.

He deserved it.

The ravine opens onto a wider plain dotted with more zabilla and the occasional stand of goligan trees. Their needle-like leaves whisper in the desert wind, a sound like hushed warnings. I force myself to walk now instead of run. Need to preserve what strength I have left.

My stomach cramps, reminding me it's been empty for far too long. But there's nothing safe to forage here, and I don't dare risk stopping long enough to properly search. Every second counts.

The howling fades behind me, replaced by the steady whisper of wind through stone. Either I've outrun them, or they've found an easier trail to follow. Neither option offers much comfort.

I trudge across the plain, my shadow stretching long and thin in the moonlight. The shackles have rubbed my ankles raw, leaving bloody rings that match the ones around my wrists. Souvenirs from my time in hell.

Three days. Maybe four. Then what?

No point thinking that far ahead. Right now, survival means putting one foot in front of the other. Means ignoring the way my legs shake with exhaustion. Means pretending I have a plan beyond 'get away.'

The scrub gives way to harder ground scattered with loose rock. Easier walking, but nowhere to hide if they come for me. I stick to the shadows where I can, always moving, always listening.

A sound stops me cold—the rhythmic thud of hoofbeats. Multiple riders, moving fast. My blood turns to ice as I scan the landscape for cover. Nothing but open ground for a hundred yards in every direction.

I drop flat behind a cluster of rocks barely big enough to hide a child, pressing my face into the dirt. The hoofbeats grow louder, accompanied now by harsh voices shouting in that guttural tone of orcs.

Not the camp guards. Something else.

The riders thunder past close enough that I feel the vibration through the ground. Dust clouds kicked up by their mounts settle over me like a burial shroud. I don't move, don't breathe, until the sound fades into the distance.

When I finally lift my head, my whole body trembles with more than just cold. Orcs this far from the Orclands means raiding parties. Means I've traded one nightmare for another.

I need shelter. Somewhere to wait out whatever's coming.

The landscape offers nothing but scattered rocks and scrub brush, but there—a shallow ravine cuts across the wasteland like a scar. If I can reach it, maybe I can find an overhang or cave to hide in until the danger passes.

I'm halfway across the open ground when the earth starts trembling again. This time it's not just hoofbeats—it's the thunder of a full war party. Dozens of riders, maybe more, their battle cries echoing off the rocks like the howls of demons.

My legs pump desperately as I sprint for the ravine, but it's too far. Too exposed. The sound grows louder behind me, accompanied by guttural shouts and the clash of metal. They're coming fast, and I'll never make it.

A shadow falls across me just as I reach the edge of the ravine. Massive hands seize my arms and haul me upright like I weigh nothing. The orc holding me has skin the color of old bronze, marbled with darker veins that look like cracks in weathered stone. His tusks curve wickedly from his lower jaw, and when he grins, I see teeth filed to points.

"Look what crawled out of the desert," he rumbles, his voice like grinding millstones.

Other orcs gather around us—a dozen warriors mounted on creatures that look like equus crossed with nightmares. Their steeds snort and paw at the ground, foam speckling their midnight coats. The riders themselves are a study in barely contained violence, all scarred hide armor and weapons that have tasted blood recently.

"Human female," another orc observes, dismounting with predatory grace. This one's smaller than the rest but moves like a blade given flesh. "Been running hard by the look of her."

My legs shake, whether from exhaustion or terror I can't tell. Both, probably. The brand on my collarbone burns like it's been freshly applied, and I wonder if they can sense what I am. What I carry.

Don't show fear. Don't give them the satisfaction.

But my body betrays me—trembling hands, rapid breathing, the way I flinch when one of them steps closer. They smell of smoke and iron, of blood that's not their own. Everything about them screams predator, and I'm just another piece of prey that wandered into their territory.

"Tie her up," the bronze-skinned orc orders. "She'll fetch a good price at the next settlement."

Rough hands bind my wrists with coarse rope that bites into the raw wounds left by my shackles. They boost me onto one of their mounts, settling me in front of a warrior who reeks of old sweat and something else—something that makes my stomach turn. His arm circles my waist like an iron band, holding me in place.

We ride hard through the night, the landscape blurring past in shades of silver and black. My captor doesn't speak, but I feel his eyes on me constantly, assessing. Calculating. The other orcs joke among themselves in their harsh tones, their laughter like the sound of breaking bones.

By dawn, we're climbing through rocky hills that jut from the earth like broken teeth. The air grows thick with salt and the crash of distant waves. We're heading for the coast—toward the Orclands proper.

The settlement appears without warning, carved into the clifftops like a wound in the stone. Gor'thul. Even the name sounds like a curse. Blackened wooden palisades topped with bones—human bones, I realize with a chill—rise from the rocky ground. Smoke curls from dozens of fires, carrying the scent of charred meat and something fouler.

Crude dwellings built from driftwood and hide cluster along the cliff's edge, connected by narrow walkways that look like they'd collapse in a strong wind. Everything about this place speaks of violence held barely in check, of a people who've carved their existence from stone and suffering.

The gates swing open with a groan of tortured metal. More orcs gather as we ride through—warriors, craftsmen, even a few females watching from doorways with calculating eyes. They all turn to stare at me, and the weight of their attention makes my skin crawl.

We stop in what passes for the settlement's center—a circular space surrounded by the largest longhouses. A fire pit dominates the middle, its flames casting dancing shadows on the assembled crowd. The orc behind me dismounts and hauls me down after him, my legs nearly buckling when they hit solid ground.

"Spoils from the desert raid," he announces, his voice carrying easily over the murmur of the crowd. "Human female, young and healthy."

The orcs press closer, examining me like livestock at market. Hands reach out to test the muscle in my arms, to lift my chin and peer at my face. I jerk away from their touch, earning amused chuckles.

Stay strong. Don't let them see how terrified you are.

But I am terrified. Bone-deep, soul-shaking terror that makes my vision blur at the edges. I've heard stories about what orcs do to human captives. About the lucky ones who die quickly.

A figure pushes through the crowd, and the other orcs step aside with visible reluctance. This one's different—leaner than the others but no less dangerous. His skin has a grayish cast that makes him look carved from storm clouds, and ritual scars cover his tusks in intricate patterns. When he moves, it's with the fluid grace of a born killer.

"Varok," someone calls out, and the name sends a ripple through the gathered orcs.

So this is Varok. Even without knowing who he is, I can tell he's important by the way the others defer to him. By the cold calculation in his dark eyes as he looks me over.

He circles me slowly, taking in every detail. The torn remnants of my prison clothes. The healing cuts on my arms and legs. The way I hold myself despite the exhaustion and fear. When he stops in front of me, close enough that I can see my reflection in his pupils, I force myself to meet his gaze.

"Damaged goods," he says finally, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent crowd. "But serviceable."

He reaches toward me, and every instinct screams to run. But there's nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. His fingers are inches from my throat when another voice cuts through the air like a blade.

"I get first look at the spoils."

The effect is immediate. Varok's hand freezes mid-reach, and his expression shifts from predatory satisfaction to barely concealed rage. The crowd turns as one toward the source of the voice, and I see several orcs actually step back.

Varok's jaw clenches, the muscles in his neck standing out like cables. For a moment, I think he might refuse—might challenge whoever dared interrupt him. Then he takes a deliberate step backward, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

"Of course," he says, the words ground out between clenched teeth.

My heart hammers against my ribs as footsteps approach from behind me. Heavy, measured, carrying the weight of absolute authority. The crowd parts further, creating a clear path, and the fear in the air becomes thick enough to taste.

I don't turn around. Can't turn around. Because somehow, I know that whatever's coming will be worse than Varok. Worse than anything I've faced so far.

The footsteps stop directly behind me, close enough that I can feel body heat radiating against my back. Feel the subtle shift in the air that comes with something large and dangerous occupying the same space.

This is it. This is where I die.