The Brand

The dawn broke gray and heavy when the guards came for them. The air was still damp with dew as chains clinked and the four adventurers were marched back through the streets of the orcish stronghold. The smell of smoke and iron was stronger now; the whole place seemed to thrum with anticipation.

Inside the warlord’s tent, the Boar-Head sat upon his throne of bone and iron, his one golden eye fixed on them as they were brought forward. His voice rumbled like an earthquake. “Have you chosen?”

Leo stepped ahead before anyone else could speak. He met that blazing gaze with something dangerously close to pride. “We’ll take the brand,” he said. “The mark of servitude. One year.”

A ripple of surprise went through the tent, some laughter, some respect. The Chief gave a slow nod. “So be it. Let it be written in flame.”

They were stripped down to their underclothes, wrists pulled behind their backs by goblin attendants who worked with mechanical efficiency. A hobgoblin stepped forward, his face hidden by a soot-stained mask. In his hands, he held a long iron rod capped with an intricate sigil that glowed faintly red as he pressed it into the coals.

The sound was a low hiss at first, then the air filled with the smell of burning metal and ash.

Leo went first. He stood tall, jaw set, muscles tensing as the hobgoblin pressed the brand just below his navel directly above the line of his hips. The iron hissed against flesh, smoke curling up, the scent sharp and searing. He didn’t cry out.

Jolie followed. Her breath hitched; she bit down on her knuckle as the mark burned into her skin. Tears welled in her eyes, but she smiled through them reckless, defiant.

Yamaba didn’t flinch. Her molten eyes stayed fixed on the warlord the entire time, her face blank even as the brand seared into her stomach.

Alice was last. Her legs shook as she was guided forward, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might burst. The hobgoblin looked at her once, impassive, before pressing the iron to her skin.

She gasped, the pain blooming white behind her eyes. The smell of scorched flesh filled her nose, her vision swimming. When it was over, the mark glowed faintly red against her stomach a sigil of chains and flame.

The warlord rose to his feet, looming over them like a mountain. “For one year,” he said, his voice carrying through the tent. “You are bound to Fangspire. You work, you live, you bleed under our law. Do so with honor, and the brand will fade. Break it… and it will burn again.”

The guards released them. The tent’s heavy air lifted only slightly, the silence thick with the ache of what they’d just endured.

Alice looked down at the mark, her skin still smoking faintly. (One year. A whole year under them. But… at least we’re alive.)

Leo turned to her then, face pale but steady. “We’ll make it through,” he said quietly. “And when this is over, we walk out free.”

[Divine Transmission – The Voice of Morgroth]

“Ah, little trespassers… You kneel in my shadow now. And you wear my seal, warm as breath and twice as patient.”

You have been claimed not by the orcs, not by the hobgoblins who swung the iron, but by me. The Warlord of Fangspire. The Laughing Forge. The Hand that Holds the Leash.

My flame kissed your flesh, and through it, your will bends beneath mine.

The one you call Korgul One-Eye is my hammer. When he strikes, it is my laughter that follows. His law is my law, his temper my indulgence.

You thought yourself strong, walking into my warrens with weapons drawn and hearts so full of righteousness. And now, look at you branded, trembling, tasting the air for mercy that will never come.

Do not mistake this as punishment. I am not cruel for cruelty’s sake. No, no… I am curious. I wish to see what you will become when strength is stripped away and obedience is all that remains. Will you kneel with dignity? Or scream as your pride burns from the inside out?

The brand is a conversation, mortal. When you serve, it hums with quiet approval. When you resist, it whispers gently at first then bites, then devours. Every spark of rebellion feeds it, and through it, I feed upon you.

The mind that cannot bow will be taught to. The heart that cannot yield will learn devotion the way a blade learns blood.

Serve your year in silence, and I will let the flame cool. Korgul will release you, and your scar will fade into a story you tell with shaking hands.

Defy me, and the mark will sing to you forever a lullaby of tusks, drums, and the scent of iron and musk.

“Strength is law. But law is not mercy. You will serve my children, and in doing so, you will serve me. And if the thought of obedience makes you sick…”

“…then I shall make you love the taste of your chains.”

MORGROTH

Warlord of Fangspire, The Laughing Forge, Lord of Chains and Conquest

[System Notice – Dice’s Patch Notes]

“Oh for the love of... Really, Morgroth? You burn your little pet mortals alive with divine branding fire and don’t even leave a user manual? Fine. I’ll do it. Again.”

[BRAND OF SERVITUDE: ACTIVE]

Applied under divine tantrum from Morgroth, Lord of Grunting and Flexing.

Alright, so here’s the deal you’ve been stamped. Congratulations! You’re now walking around with one of Morgroth’s “holy leashes.” The thing’s supposed to make you obedient to the orcs, or as he likes to put it: “spiritually reforged in glorious servitude.”

Translation? Do what they tell you, and you won’t fry like a bug in a lantern.

How It Works (Because He Wouldn’t Tell You)

Be nice, stay respectful, follow orders the brand stays quiet. Maybe warm. Maybe smug.

Get uppity? Roll your eyes at a tusk? Think mean thoughts about their “divine strength”?

Boom. Your brain gets microwaved in the name of character development.

This isn’t just pain. Oh no, that’d be too easy. It rewires you. Bit by bit, thought by thought, until you start thinking orcs smell amazing and that maybe being someone’s property isn’t so bad after all. Fun, right?

Release Clause (aka: The Carrot)

Do your year of service. Keep your head down. Let the orcs win their little power fantasy. After that, the mark fades, you get your free will back, and maybe even your dignity.

Or… fight it. And watch as your neurons turn into a shrine dedicated to big green muscle worship.

“In summary: obey, survive, keep your brain intact. Disobey, and you’ll be drooling over tusks before spring. Morgroth thinks this is character building. I think it’s hysterical. Either way have fun with your new firmware update.”

– DICE

God of Chaos, Sarcasm, and Cleaning Up After Other Gods’ Messes

The tent’s thick air had settled into something almost ceremonial by the time the masked hobgoblin returned. His armor was lacquered black and fitted tight to his wiry frame, his gait quick but unhurried. The long iron rod from the branding still glowed faintly at his hip, its heat bleeding into the air.

He held a rolled parchment in one hand, bound with a strip of red hide. “Assignments,” he said flatly, voice muffled behind his mask. “By the Warlord’s decree.”

A pair of orc sentries flanked him silent, massive, tusks catching the lamplight as they waited for orders.

The hobgoblin unrolled the parchment.

“Leo of Inspira. You are to report to the war barracks at dawn. The Warlord has taken interest in your aura your strength mirrors the forgotten class once known as paladin. Our clans have no such warriors, not yet. You will train our youth, guide them to unlock this path when their spirits evolve. You will teach discipline, order, and devotion to power.”

Leo’s brows shot up. “So… I’m making orc paladins now?”

“Not making,” the hobgoblin corrected. “Recreating. You will help them find what was lost before the first brands were ever struck.”

Leo let out a slow exhale. “Guess I’ve heard of worse jobs.”

“Yamaba,” the hobgoblin continued, his tone lowering with something almost respectful. “You are to serve as the Chief’s adviser. He has taken notice of your grasp of law… and your silence.”

Yamaba’s molten eyes flicked up. For a heartbeat, emotion stirred there pride or dread, Alice couldn’t tell. She inclined her head. “Understood.”

The hobgoblin gestured, and two of the guards stepped forward. “Take them to their quarters.”

Leo turned to glance back at Alice and Jolie, managing a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Behave, you two,” he muttered, before vanishing through the flap with Yamaba.

When they were gone, the tent felt smaller quieter. The hobgoblin turned his masked face toward Alice and Jolie. The silence stretched long enough that Alice’s stomach began to twist.

Finally, he spoke. “As for you two…”

He lowered the parchment. “Your duties are of a more delicate nature.”

Alice exchanged a nervous look with Jolie, who was trying to mask her curiosity behind a grin.

“You will serve within the stronghold,” the hobgoblin continued. “You are not warriors. You are guests bound ones. The Warlord has instructed that your abilities as healers be studied and, if proven useful, employed in service to the clan. You will tend to the wounded, the sick, and any who require your craft.”

That didn’t sound so bad. Alice felt a faint, hopeful flutter. “So… we’re healers again,” she whispered.

The hobgoblin’s head tilted, almost as if amused. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Healers. But remember your brand. You do not choose your patients.”

He turned, the glow of the brand rod casting strange shadows on the tent walls. “You begin at dusk. Do well, and your stay will be… comfortable.”

With that, he left them in silence, the echo of his boots fading beyond the flap.

Jolie exhaled, rubbing her arms. “Well,” she said finally, forcing a nervous laugh. “Could’ve been worse.”

Alice stared down at the faint red mark below her belly button, the sigil still tender and warm against her skin. (Could’ve been worse, she thinks. But why does it feel like this is only the beginning?)

The morning in Fangspire broke not with sunlight, but with the faint red glow filtering through tattered canvas. The air smelled faintly of smoke, herbs, and something metallic like dried blood hidden beneath the perfume of medicine.

Alice groaned, rolling over on the surprisingly soft bedding of furs and stitched hides. Jolie was curled beside her, face half-buried in a pillow that still smelled faintly of the orc oils used to tan leather. For a dungeon stronghold, it was disturbingly… comfortable.

“Ugh,” Jolie mumbled, pulling the blanket tighter. “Five more minutes. I don’t care if the world ends.”

A soft voice stammered from nearby. “M-mistresses, please… the Warlord expects the infirmary operational by dawn ”

Alice blinked groggily, sitting up just enough to see him their assistant. He looked barely older than eighteen, a scrawny hobgoblin boy with long grayish-green hair that kept falling over his face. His tail, thin and whip-like, flicked nervously behind him with each word. Every time he tried to brush the hair from his eyes, it just slipped back down again.

“S-sorry! I just you need to ” he began, voice cracking.

Jolie flopped onto her back with a dramatic groan. “If this is another one of those divine ‘wake-up calls,’ I’m moving to Candyland permanently.”

Then it hit.

Both girls arched with a yelp as their brands flared to life molten-hot for a single, blinding instant. Electricity rushed up their spines, short-circuiting thought and motor control alike. Alice’s eyes flew wide as her muscles locked, breath catching in her throat. Jolie squealed, sitting bolt upright, her hair standing slightly on end.

For one humiliating second, both nearly lost control entirely.

And then, as suddenly as it came, the burning stopped.

They sat there, panting, trembling, the scent of ozone hanging faintly in the air.

The hobgoblin froze in panic, his ears twitching. “D-did I did I do something wrong?!”

Jolie grabbed her chest, voice trembling between pain and laughter. “No. Just… divine punishment for oversleeping.”

Alice rubbed at the still-glowing mark below her navel, wincing. “Morgroth’s idea of an alarm clock, apparently.”

Dice’s voice flickered faintly in her mind dry, sarcastic, and far too amused.

“You know, some people set alarms. Others let gods of war handle it. Very efficient.”

Alice sighed. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Oh, immensely.”

The hobgoblin, still red-faced and mortified, looked between them helplessly. “I-I can fetch breakfast?”

Jolie **** a weak smile, tousling his hair with a tired hand. “Fetch coffee. Or blood. Or something that hurts less than this.”

He scurried off at once, tail swishing in panic.

As the tent flap closed behind him, Alice slumped back against the furs, glaring up at the ceiling. “One year of this…” she muttered. “We’re not surviving a year of this.”

Jolie chuckled faintly, eyes closing again. “Maybe not. But damn if I’m not going to try to nap through at least part of it.”

The tent flap snapped open again, and the nervous young hobgoblin rushed in tail flicking like a whip behind him, long hair falling into his eyes. He was barely eighteen by the look of him: lean, wiry, and awkwardly handsome in that fragile, too-young way. His cheeks flushed green-gray as he hurried forward, carrying a steaming wooden cup in both trembling hands.

“M-mistresses! I brought what you asked for!”

Alice blinked sleepily, rubbing at her temple. Jolie sat up beside her, eyes still half-lidded. “Wait,” Jolie said slowly, staring at the dark liquid sloshing in the cup. “That’s… not coffee.”

The hobgoblin froze. “O-of course not! It’s blood! You said you wanted blood, right?” He looked genuinely proud of himself, as though he’d just fetched a morning latte.

Alice’s face went pale. “Oh gods.”

He blinked in confusion. “Is something wrong? This is a good batch! Orc brew heavy spices, thick and rich! It’s a breakfast staple in the warrens!”

Jolie leaned in, sniffing it once before recoiling with a grimace. “Smells like someone boiled a battlefield.”

The hobgoblin wilted. His long ears drooped, and his tail gave an apologetic twitch.

Alice couldn’t help it despite the horror, despite the ache in her brand still throbbing faintly under her skin, the sight of him stammering and red-faced made her want to laugh. (Or maybe that’s just the brand messing with me. He’s cute, but… not that cute. Right?)

Jolie chuckled under her breath. “Relax, kid. You didn’t do anything wrong. We’re just not used to, uh… drinking breakfast.”

The hobgoblin brightened a little. “Oh! Well, I can bring it again with cream! Sometimes the orcs add bone milk, or fermented mushroom froth ”

Alice waved her hands quickly. “No, no, it’s fine! I’m, um… more of a tea person. Green tea, preferably. Do you have that here?”

He frowned thoughtfully. “We have… green moss steeped in hot water? The goblins say it helps digestion.”

Alice gave a small, awkward smile. “Close enough.”

The hobgoblin’s face lit up, tail wagging slightly as he hurried off again.

As soon as he was gone, Jolie leaned closer to Alice and whispered, “Tell me I’m not the only one who kind of wanted to pat him on the head.”

Alice groaned, covering her face. “You’re not. But I’m blaming the brain-fry.”

Jolie laughed softly. “Yeah… same.”

Outside, the muffled sounds of the orc stronghold began to rise, drums, grunts, hammering. Inside, the tent smelled faintly of blood and smoke,

The tent was far nicer than either of them expected.

Soft furs lined the floor and walls, muffling footsteps and muting the constant rumble of life outside. The faint scent of smoke clung to everything, but it was offset by the earthy smell of herbs hanging in bundles near the entrance. Someone had even draped rough-woven tapestries between the support poles, scenes of battle and hunt stitched in red and brown thread.

The rear of the tent was divided into a small triage space. Rough-hewn tables held jars of crushed herbs, rolled bandages, and a few bottles sealed with wax. It wasn’t sterile by any stretch, but it was cleaner than Alice had expected for an orc encampment.

She sat back on a low fur-padded stool, sipping at the cup the hobgoblin had brought her. The liquid was faintly green and bubbled against her tongue.

She blinked. “It’s… carbonated?”

The boy still standing near the doorway, hands folded behind his back, perked up nervously. “O-oh! Yes, mistress! The moss ferments naturally in the cave air. It it fizzes on its own after a few days. Orcs say it keeps the blood hot.”

Alice took another cautious sip. It wasn’t bad at all. Tangy, a little sweet, with a clean mineral taste. “Huh. I actually kind of like it.”

Jolie grinned, lying sideways on one of the fur pallets, her chin propped on her hand. “Careful, sweetheart. Next thing you know, you’ll be drinking blood cocktails like the rest of them.”

Alice rolled her eyes, setting the cup down gently. Then, glancing at the boy still standing rigidly by the flap, she softened her tone. “Thank you. Really. It’s good.”

The hobgoblin’s ears twitched, his tail giving a little nervous flick. “I I’m glad you think so!”

She hesitated, realizing they’d never actually asked. “What’s your name?”

He blinked, as if surprised anyone wanted to know. “Ah I’m Norki, mistress. Norki of the Ember Warren. I was told to assist you… with everything you might need.”

Jolie arched an eyebrow, fighting a smirk. “Everything, huh?”

Norki’s face went scarlet-green. “I I meant medical work! Not not ” He waved his hands frantically, tail thrashing behind him.

Alice stifled a laugh, the faint warmth from her brand buzzing softly under her skin. (Gods, he really is kind of cute… No, no. That’s probably just residual brain damage.)

She smiled gently instead. “It’s nice to meet you, Norki. Let’s just stick with the healing part for now.”

He nodded so fast his hair flew into his eyes again. “Y-yes, mistress!”

Jolie leaned back, chuckling. “This is going to be fun.”

Norki had just finished explaining the last of the herbs, his shy voice tripping over the difference between “soothing poultice” and “sedation draught” when a guttural cry echoed from outside the tent.

The flap burst open, and a hobgoblin guard shoved through, his armor half-buckled and streaked with soot. “Hunters incoming! Burned and mauled!”

Norki paled instantly. “O-Orcish hunters?”

The guard only nodded, and the smell hit before the wounded even arrived scorched hair, iron, and blood.

Alice barely had time to clear the central mat before the first stretcher came in: a massive orc with half his body bandaged in charred flesh. Behind him came three more, each worse than the last. One’s arm was a twisted blackened claw of cooked sinew; another’s chest was torn open in thick gouges that had cauterized mid-tear.

“What happened to them?” Jolie whispered, eyes wide.

The hobgoblin medic shook his head, voice low and shaken. “The hunters found the beast again. The one from the hills. A walking inferno ten feet tall, claws like axes, eyes like forge-fire. They said it tore through the trees, screaming like a burning man.”

Alice froze. “That’s… not an orc?”

“No,” Norki said softly. “Nothing mortal. The Warchief called it Ignis-Beast, the cursed flame-thing. He offered gold and honor to anyone who can slay it.”

Jolie looked over the wounds with a grimace. “If these are the survivors, I don’t want to see the rest.”

Alice knelt beside the first orc, forcing her shaking hands steady as she called up her healing light.

The glow spread across burned skin, hissing softly against the lingering heat.

The orc groaned but didn’t lash out. His one good eye cracked open, glassy and red. “The forest… burns,” he rasped. “It walks, healer. The fire walks.”

Alice’s heart pounded in her ears. She didn’t know it, but she’d just heard the first whisper of Ignition the beast that would change everything.

Jolie pressed a hand to her shoulder, muttering, “Guess that’s the one the Warchief wanted us to kill, huh?”

Alice swallowed hard, the faint warmth of the brand under her skin pulsing like a warning. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I think so.”

The smell hit first scorched flesh, burned leather, and blood thick enough to taste in the air. When the orcs were carried in, even Jolie’s steady hands faltered.

The first was half-burned from shoulder to knee, the flesh blistered and fused, the armor melted into the skin. The second had a gaping hole where his stomach should have been, blackened edges sealing the wound like molten glass. The third had claw marks so deep across his chest that Alice could see bone beneath, the ribs cracked and scorched as if by lightning. The fourth was the worst his entire arm had been torn away, the stump glowing faintly as if still smoldering from within.

Alice’s stomach churned. (This isn’t battle damage. This is slaughter.)

“Get the salves!” she barked, already summoning her healing light. The golden aura shimmered between her fingers, her palms pressed to the first orc’s burned chest. The sound was like water hitting hot metal, a violent hiss as skin knit together in flashes of light. Steam rolled off him, carrying the smell of char.

Jolie moved beside her, chanting under her breath, her own magic colder and sharper, threads of blue light sewing through ruptured muscle. “Come on,” she muttered, voice tight. “You’re too damn big to die on my mat.”

The orc groaned, a deep sound like stone shifting, and his breathing steadied barely.

They worked in rhythm: Alice pouring warmth into the dying, Jolie closing torn veins and sealing burns. Norki dashed between them with bandages and fresh water, his hands shaking as he wiped sweat and blood from their foreheads.

Each spell drew heavier on their reserves. Alice could feel her mana draining, her limbs trembling as the glow in her palms began to flicker. “Just one more,” she whispered, forcing the spell through, sealing another wound. Her head pounded. The world swayed.

Jolie’s last burst of healing flared bright, blinding for a heartbeat then guttered out like a candle in the wind. She slumped back, panting. “Out,” she rasped. “Completely out.”

Alice nodded weakly, the edges of her vision dimming. “Same.”

The tent was silent except for the ragged breathing of the survivors. Their wounds were closed, but barely patched flesh trembling where divine light had run thin.

Norki stared at the two healers, awe and fear mingling in his wide eyes. “You saved them,” he whispered.

Alice’s hands still glowed faintly as she pressed her palms to her knees, shaking. “No,” she said softly, voice raw. “We bought them time.”

The tent had fallen quiet after the last patient stabilized. Only the faint hum of the ward-lamps and the rhythmic breathing of sleeping orcs remained.

Jolie sat slumped against a crate of herbs, her hair sticking to her forehead with sweat. “I’ve got nothing left,” she muttered, voice hoarse. “If another one comes through that flap, we’re done.”

Alice tried to answer, but her voice failed. Every vein in her body felt hollow, her mana completely spent. Even her heartbeat seemed to echo like an empty drum.

Norki lingered nearby, wringing his hands nervously. “You should rest,” he offered timidly. “When healers burn out, the mark… sometimes it bites back.”

Alice gave a weak smile. “Yeah, we’ve noticed.”

Jolie rubbed her temples. "There's… another way. We can fuck and recharge our mana."

Alice blinked. "Now?"

"Now," Jolie said firmly, rising to her knees. "Before we both collapse. It's either that or we let the brand fry our brains again."

They retreated to the back of the tent where the shadows swallowed the faint glow of the firelight. The scent of blood and herbs hung heavy in the air as they knelt close together.

Jolie took Alice's face in her hands and captured her lips in a searing kiss. They moved together with renewed urgency, hands roaming, caressing, sliding beneath robes to find smooth skin. Jolie pushed Alice down onto the furs and settled between her thighs.

They rocked together, a building rhythm, as Jolie's fingers found Alice's center, slick and pulsing with need. She circled the base of Alice's cock with her thumb, feeling it twitch and throb. At the same time, she pushed two fingers deep into Alice's dripping heat, curling to hit that perfect spot inside her.

Alice gasped and arched, fumbling to return the touch. She reached for Jolie, finding her hot and ready. They moved as one, stroking and teasing each other higher and higher. Alice's cock was trapped between their bodies, rubbing against Jolie's soft skin with each rocking thrust.

The mana built between them in crackling waves, but distantly, secondary to the flames of their mutual desire. Alice could feel her orgasm building, her cock swelling, her pussy clenching around Jolie's pumping fingers.

They ground together, hips undulating, until the tension crested and broke in shattering shared climax. Alice's cock erupted, spilling seed between their bodies, just as her pussy clamped down on Jolie's fingers. Mana surged between them in a blinding rush of gold and azure light...

The air shimmered faintly with golden and azure hues as their tether awakened two lights pulsing in rhythm, their breaths syncing unconsciously. The mana weave thrummed louder, then softened to a heartbeat's whisper.

When the light finally dimmed, both women slumped against the furs, their skin slick with sweat and the faint residue of magic.

Jolie exhaled shakily, voice quiet. "Okay… that's better. I can feel the flow again."

Alice nodded weakly, still trembling from the effort. "Yeah. Just… don't tell Leo. He'd never let us live this down."

They both laughed softly, the tension breaking. Outside, the muffled sounds of the orc stronghold carried on drums beating somewhere in the distance, the guttural roar of laughter echoing through the night.

For now, in their little corner of the camp, the healers simply rested the tether warm between them, steady and alive.

Norki had meant only to check on them. The two human healers had worked themselves nearly to collapse, and when they vanished behind the curtain of furs, he’d thought they’d simply gone to rest. He’d called their names once, softly, but the only answer was a stifled moan and the shimmer of magic.

Realizing too late what he’d stumbled into, he froze. His tail went rigid, his throat dry, and shame burned through him. He turned away at once, face flushed a deep red.

But in that brief, unguarded moment before he could retreat he’d seen something he couldn’t unsee. Alice. The smaller of the two healers. Not quite like the others. Instead of the smooth, mound he'd been expecting, there was something else entirely. Something unmistakably masculine nestled between her legs.

When he finally backed out of the tent, heart pounding, the night air hit him like cold water. He sank down by the steps, burying his face in his hands. “Spirits… she’s one of them,” he whispered.

Among orcs and hobgoblins, such a thing was no secret. One in seven orc women were born with both forms blessed and cursed in the same breath. Some tribes called them “Twice-Marked.” Others called them Unwanted. Few survived long among their kind.

Norki’s ears flicked back as the thought settled in. If the wrong people in the stronghold found out about Alice…

He looked up at the stars glimmering faintly through the smoke of the forges, the sound of wolves echoing somewhere far off. “They’d exile her,” he murmured. “Or worse.”

His tail flicked anxiously as he made his decision. He couldn’t tell anyone, not the guards, not the shamans, not even the Warchief’s aides. This was Alice's secret to keep or share, not his.

When he finally crept back into the tent, Alice and Jolie were already asleep, curled in a tangle of furs. The soft red mark of the brand glowed faintly on their stomachs in the lamplight. Norki could still smell the thick, pungent scent of their love making hanging in the air.

Norki paused, watching the rise and fall of Alice’s chest. “I’ll keep your secret,” he whispered quietly. “No one here will hurt you if I can help it.”

Then he blew out the lamp and settled by the tent flap, keeping watch long into the night.

The next morning came slowly, sunlight filtering through thin canvas and catching on dust motes that drifted lazily through the tent. The air smelled faintly of herbs and burnt incense from the night before.

Alice stirred first, stretching under the furs with a sleepy yawn. Jolie groaned beside her, burying her face in a pillow. The soft sound of clinking metal outside told them Norki was already awake though the moment Alice sat up, he nearly tripped over himself.

The young hobgoblin froze mid-step, his tail lashing wildly as his eyes darted anywhere but the two women. His long hair, usually tucked back, hung forward like a curtain to hide his burning face.

“Uh m-morning!” he blurted, his voice cracking halfway through. He pretended to be very busy stacking jars of herbs that didn’t need stacking. “You… slept well, I hope? Y-yes, good sleep is… important for recovery. Aha.”

Alice blinked, still half asleep. “Morning, Norki. You okay? You’re… jumpier than usual.”

“I I’m fine!” He squeaked a little too quickly, fumbling one of the jars and barely catching it before it shattered. “Just, um, early day. Lots of work. Orc patients, you know how they are. Loud. Big. Bleeding.”

Jolie stretched lazily, smirking as she caught the poor boy’s flustered expression. “You look like you saw a ghost,” she teased, leaning on her elbow. “Or maybe something else kept you up all night?”

Norki turned crimson, his ears twitching violently. “N-no! I mean yes no, I mean I didn’t I mean I was working!”

Alice tilted her head, confused by his babbling. “Working on what? You don’t have to do everything, you know.”

He coughed sharply, tail flicking like a whip. “I uh inventory! Yes, I was doing inventory. Herbs. Powders. Bandages. Very… complicated process.”

Jolie chuckled softly. “Mmhm. Sure, inventory.”

He tried to redirect the conversation desperately. “I, uh, brought breakfast!” He darted to the counter and returned with two small bowls of roasted mushrooms and flatbread. “It’s fresh! And, um, I cleaned the basin for you. You both worked really hard yesterday. You deserve uh rest.”

Alice smiled warmly despite his obvious awkwardness. “That’s really sweet, Norki. Thank you.”

The kindness in her voice made his tail stop thrashing. He looked at her for a moment too long before glancing quickly away, guilt flickering across his expression.

“Y-you’re welcome,” he mumbled. “Just… be careful today. The orcs are in a strange mood. I’ll, uh, be nearby if you need anything.”

As he turned to leave, Jolie nudged Alice with a grin. “You know, I think he’s got a crush on you.”

Alice flushed, glancing at the tent flap where he’d disappeared. “Don’t say that. You’ll embarrass him.”

“Sweetheart,” Jolie murmured, still smiling, “he’s already beyond embarrassed.”

Alice sighed softly, sipping her moss juice again, but her mind lingered on the way Norki’s eyes had darted away from her not in disgust, but in confusion. Almost worry.

(He knows. Somehow, he knows. And… he didn’t say anything.)

The thought warmed and frightened her in equal measure.

Morning light bled through the tent seams as Alice and Jolie sat cross-legged on the furs, both still a bit rumpled from sleep. Norki had stepped out to fetch water, leaving the tent quiet except for the soft hum of the system panel hovering between them.

Alice tapped the translucent interface; a faint ping rippled through the air before Leo’s face appeared, projected in clear blue light. His blond hair was a mess, a streak of soot across one cheek, and he looked both exhausted and smug.

“Morning, ladies,” he greeted, voice warm but teasing. “Still alive? No goblin uprisings overnight?”

Jolie laughed. “Barely. We’re in the healing tent, remember? I think the goblins like us. They keep bringing ‘snacks.’” She lifted the cup of moss juice and took a sip with a grimace.

Leo chuckled. “Trust me, you’ll get used to it. Some of the soldiers here actually drink blood for breakfast. Orc culture’s… colorful.”

Alice smiled faintly, fingers brushing her mark through the fabric of her shirt. “How about you? How’s training the youth going?”

That drew a visible groan from him. He leaned back in his chair, running a hand down his face. “Hopeless. All of them. I swear, half the class can’t even hold a shield properly. They’re what eighteen? Nineteen? The system hasn’t even unlocked for them yet. It’s like teaching swordsmanship to toddlers with iron clubs.”

“Wait,” Alice said, blinking. “They don’t get their systems until twenty?”

“Yep,” Leo said with a resigned grin. “Same as everyone else. Until then, they’re just swinging blind. No stats, no skills, no interface, nothing. They train by instinct and repetition. It’s brutal.”

Alice’s expression softened as she thought about it. (That means… Norki doesn’t have his yet either. No system. No class.) Her eyes drifted toward the tent flap where the young hobgoblin had left, a pang of sympathy tightening her chest.

Leo noticed her distraction but didn’t comment. “Anyway,” he said, clapping his hands together, “once these kids hit twenty and unlock their paladin evolutions, maybe they’ll stop tripping over their own swords. Maybe.”

Jolie smirked. “You sound like a grumpy old man.”

“I am a grumpy old man,” Leo said, leaning closer to the feed. “And you two look too comfortable for prisoners of war. You’re supposed to be working.”

Alice stuck her tongue out at the projection. “We were working yesterday. We healed half your army.”

Leo’s laughter filled the tent, genuine and bright. “That’s my girls. Keep it up and don’t burn through all your mana this time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jolie said with a grin. “We’ll behave.”

Before ending the call, Alice tried to add Yamaba to the connection. The system chimed once, then flashed:

[USER HAS DECLINED THE CALL]

They exchanged a look.

Leo frowned. “That’s… weird. She’s probably with the chief. Don’t worry about it.”

Alice nodded slowly, but the pit of unease in her stomach didn’t fade.

When the connection faded, the tent seemed too quiet again. Jolie yawned and flopped back on the furs. “So. Day two in captivity. Think we’ll survive it?”

Alice gave a tired smile. “If Leo’s teaching orcs how to be paladins, I think we’ll be fine.”