KHURZOG
My blood was still pounding from the fight. Every muscle in me buzzed, hot and sharp, the stink of blood thick in my nose. The Twins lay sprawled on the sand like broken carcasses, dragged out by handlers who could barely lift them. Their blood clung to my knuckles, drying sticky, and I didn’t care to wipe it off.
I’d watched this ritual a hundred times, standing guard at my boss’s side. Winners taking their pick of the ribboned girls, kissing them in front of the mob, carrying them off like trophies. Most nights it meant nothing to me. Sometimes I pitied the girls, painted up and giggling for men who saw them as prizes, not people. Sometimes I wondered what it would feel like to step back in, to fight again, to take something for myself.
Tonight I already knew the answer.
I’d asked for this fight. Told the boss it’d give the crowd a show. Truth was simpler — I needed to know if the pull gnawing at me was zhak’orr or just desire. I needed to see if the little waitress made my blood sing for a reason.
And when I saw her standing there, ribbon tight at her throat, my tusks clenched. If the Twins had won, they’d have taken her. Together. They never shared well. I’d heard the stories. Girls who left those nights limping, silent, or didn’t leave at all. I wasn’t letting that happen.
The pit master strutted into the cage, voice booming over the roar of the mob. He paraded the girls around, tugging at their ribbons, making crude jokes that made the crowd howl with laughter. The air stank of sweat and lust. Blood always did that to them — made them feral, hungry.
The elf girl lifted her chin, smiling like ice, certain I’d choose her. Clara fluttered her lashes and waved at me, hip cocked like she was already halfway undressed. Others leaned forward, eyes gleaming, hungry for what they thought I’d give them. I knew the rumors well enough — that human women wanted orc lovers for the strength, the stamina, the size. They whispered about it, chased it, because there was no danger in it. No children. No bonds. Just raw flesh.
But her…
She didn’t preen. Didn’t laugh. She clutched her ribbon like a noose, shoulders tight, trying to fold herself small enough to vanish. She wasn’t made for this stage. And still, I couldn’t look away.
The pit master noticed it, and of course he went for the cheapest laugh. He grabbed at the ribbon just below her throat and swung her a half step forward, bellowing to the crowd, “This one here could smother a man with those tits. Any volunteers to die happy?”
The mob howled. Someone in the back — drunk and bold — yelled, “I’ll take that death!” and a wave of jeers rolled through the cage.
Her face flamed. She tried to tug her ribbon back, but the pit master only grinned wider, playing the crowd.
The rest leaned closer, sensing blood.
The crowd waited for me to play the game, to let the pit master herd me past the line of girls. I didn’t. My eyes cut through the haze and fixed on her.
I lifted my hand. Pointed. One finger. No hesitation.
She froze. Didn’t step forward, didn’t move like the rest. Confusion rippled through the mob — mutters, sharp laughter.
I didn’t wait.
I grabbed the cage bars, pulled myself up, and jump clean over, landing heavy in front of her. Gasps tore through the crowd.
My hand found her face, my tusks brushing her cheeks as I pressed my mouth to hers. Hard. Claiming.
The mob erupted. Half cheers, half jeers, whistles and laughter crashing like thunder. Above it all, I heard the boss’s laugh, deep and sharp.
Someone near the front cursed loud enough to cut through the noise.
“Shit — if I’d seen that braid earlier, I’d be richer right now!”
I didn’t look at him.
My braid brushed the back of my neck as I leaned into her — thick, bound, untouched for years. Three generations of humans had lived beside us. Some of them known what it meant.
Orcs cut their hair when they lose. Every match. Every fight. Every fucking defeat. You bleed, you fall, you shear the shame.
I hadn’t cut mine since the war ended.
Tonight I won again, and chosen.
With her lips under mine, with her body stiff in my hands, I knew it wasn’t just hunger. I’d felt hunger before. This was the Pull — Zhak’orr. Not fate, not chains. Just a sign. A sign that she fit me better than most. But never like this. Never across species. Orcs didn’t believe in destiny, only choice. And I could choose to ignore it. I’d ignored it before, with orkish women in the past.
And that funny feeling gnawed deeper. Zhak’orr with a human girl. It made no sense. Unless she was a witch. But even then — I’d never heard of the pull crossing blood.
Her resistance told me plenty. Other girls I’d won melted into me, squealed, laughed for the crowd. This one stood frozen, eyes wide, every muscle tight. She wasn’t playing along.
The crowd wouldn’t care. They wanted a show. If she wouldn’t move, I had to move her.
So I acted.
I grabbed her around the waist and hefted her up, slinging her over my shoulder in one motion. Her ribboned throat flashed against my back, bright under the lights. She started thumping her fists against me, weak blows that barely stung.
The mob erupted. Jeers, whistles, laughter rolling like thunder. To them it was theater, a spectacle. To me, it was the only way to shield her from their eyes.
Her dress rode high on her thighs as she kicked, almost exposing her ass. I covered it with one broad hand, not for modesty but because I wouldn’t have them seeing what was mine to look at. She wriggled harder, pounding at my back, so I let my tail curl around her wrists, tugging them down until she could barely move.
The pit master roared with laughter. Coins changed hands. The crowd howled like wolves.
Somewhere behind me, the elf girl sneered loud enough to carry.
“He didn’t pick her to fuck — he picked her to eat. Might choke on all that fat.”
“Yeah, he’ll eat her alrig,” Clara chimed sweetly, loud enough to cut through the jeering. “But not the way you’re thinking, sweetheart.”
That sent the crowd into a fresh round of howls.
I kept walking.
I took the stairs two at a time, through the smoke and gilt, past the velvet curtains and gold railings, deeper into the private levels above the pit. The usual winners took their girls to the staff rooms down below, but not me. She wasn’t going there. She was coming with me.
My flat wasn’t much. I barely spent time in it with all the work I did. But it was mine. And it was better than throwing her to the mob’s hungry eyes a second longer.
She kicked, squirmed, her voice muffled under the roar of the pit. Her protests were swallowed by cheers and whistles.
Didn’t matter.
Every step I took, the floor thudded under me, like a drum beating steady and slow. The crowd dimmed behind us until there was only her weight on my shoulder, the heat of her body, the faint scent of her hair cutting through sweat and blood.
At last I shouldered open the heavy door.
The noise fell away. Silence pressed close, thick and still.
I carried her into my den.
For the first time, I wasn’t alone in it.