Nothing

I ask Dagul where we're headed, but he doesn’t give me much—just a cold, “Home.”

I can only assume he means his village, wherever that may be. The thought of being surrounded by other orcs—more like him—disgusts me at first. It would bring shame to those I've already lost, to everything I once stood for. But a part of me… a small, traitorous part… feels intrigued. If the others are anything like Dagul, I might not hate my time there as much as I should.

Along the way, Dagul begins to speak of his past—before the fighting arena.

“It was my final trial to become chieftain of the clan,” he says, his chest puffed with pride. “When I return, I’ll take my rightful place. I’ll lead the clan into glorious battles. We’ll be the strongest—none will ever doubt me again.”

He goes on, rambling about strength, legacy, and his future. But my mind starts to drift, shamefully not on his words, but on when he might next touch me. I shake myself out of the thought, but not before realizing how addicted I’m becoming to him—to his seed, to his body. The thought unsettles me, but it lingers.

Suddenly, Dagul stops in his tracks.

“Let’s rest here for a moment,” he says.

I nod, grateful for the break. “I’ll go hunt,” he adds. “You start the fire.”

I agree and begin collecting kindling. There’s no shortage of broken branches nearby, and with a small spell, the fire roars to life with ease. Eventually, Dagul returns with a large buck slung over his shoulder. He sets to work skinning and butchering the animal, using flat rocks as makeshift cooking stones.

As he moves, I notice an open wound on his shoulder—deep and fresh.

“What happened to your shoulder?” I ask, frowning.

“Nothing. Just a scratch,” he grunts.

“Let me see it, Dagul. Please?”

He glares at me for a moment. “Fine. But if you try anything, you’ll regret it.”

I slide closer behind him, carefully examining the wound. It looks like something pierced him—likely the buck. Maybe it got the drop on him. I reach up to unstrap his shoulder pad, and he flinches, turning toward me sharply.

“May I?”

He doesn’t answer, just turns back around. I take that as permission.

I undo the armor from his torso, exposing his back and chest fully. My breath catches. His musculature is even more defined than I imagined—broad shoulders, thick arms, and a back carved with sharp lines of muscle. But what strikes me most are the scars. Dozens of them, some thin like whip lashes, others deep and ragged—clearly from blades or arrows. His chest is just as sculpted, his stomach hard as stone, and three distinct slashes mar his chest.

I trace them gently with my fingers. “How did you get these?”

Dagul doesn’t answer at first. Then, his voice is low.

“When I was a welp, our village was attacked by a werewolf. It came in the night, killed people one by one. Guards posted didn’t matter—they ended up dead too. Eventually, it was my turn to stand watch. I saw it. I got lucky. Killed it. But not before it gave me this.”

I silently heal the wound on his shoulder with a bit more magic. He tenses at the sensation.

“You know magic?” he asks.

“A little,” I say. “I could take away the scars too, if you’d like.”

“No,” he replies immediately. “They’re reminders of what I’ve faced. An orc without scars is no orc at all.”

I nod and help him strap his armor back on. The meat finishes cooking soon after, and we eat in relative silence. There’s still tension between us—I know he sees me as a potential threat, and in many ways, I still see him the same. But every now and then, my guard slips. I feel something else when I look at him. Something I shouldn’t.

When we finish, we continue on through the fading light. Dagul tells me his village isn’t far now.