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Alice exhaled softly, her eyes still lingering on the faint shimmer where Yamaba’s name had appeared before the call dropped. For a long moment, she just stared at the fading rune waiting, hoping it might reconnect but the panel stayed quiet.

Jolie glanced up from where she was lazily braiding her hair. “Still nothing?”

Alice shook her head. “No. System says she declined the call.” She tried to sound casual, but the worry edged through anyway. “She’s probably busy. Working for the war chief or… whatever he has her doing.”

Jolie hummed, unconcerned. “Yeah, she’s probably knee-deep in meetings or law talk or something. You know Yamaba if she’s not glaring at someone, she’s plotting ten moves ahead of them.”

That earned a faint smile from Alice. “Right… and if we tried to call her, we’d probably interrupt her mid-sentence. Not exactly smart.”

The logic helped, even if her chest still felt tight. Yamaba was strong stronger than any of them and she didn’t strike Alice as the kind of person who needed saving. Still, the silence on the other end of that connection gnawed at her.

Alice shut down the holo-display with a flick of her wrist, the light fading from the tent walls. “She’s fine,” she said more to herself than to Jolie. “She just… needs space. We’ll see her soon.”

“Exactly,” Jolie said with a grin, tossing her braid over her shoulder. “Now quit worrying and drink your moss juice. We’ve got a full day ahead of us.”

Alice rolled her eyes but took a sip, trying to push the worry away. The fizzy sweetness tickled her tongue, grounding her back in the moment.

Outside, the sound of hammering and guttural orc voices echoed through the stronghold, a reminder of the strange world they were now part of and of the friends scattered across it, each playing their role.

The Warchief’s tent loomed like a temple of conquest stitched from hides, reinforced by iron ribs, and lit by a roaring fire pit that threw everything in shades of crimson and shadow. The air stank of sweat, smoke, and oil.

Yamaba stood before Warchief Korgul One-Eye, the massive Boar-Head orc whose mere presence seemed to compress the space around him. His face was half-beast, one eye gleaming gold, the other a hollow scar that carved down into his tusk. He studied her like a weapon left too long in its sheath.

“You speak our law,” he said at last, voice deep as a drumbeat. “You recite the codes like one born to the Warrens. Yet you are no orc, and no ****. How?”

Yamaba’s posture did not shift. Her molten eyes met his without flinching. “I learned from someone who… once lived among your people. He taught me your rites, your structure. How your kind survive.”

Korgul grunted, setting down his cleaver. “A teacher, then. He must’ve known much to pass it to an elf.”

“He did,” Yamaba said quietly. “He was… kind.”

That word seemed to amuse him. “Kind,” he echoed, rolling it across his tongue as though it were alien. “We don’t often get called that.”

She didn’t answer. Her gaze drifted toward the fire, voice barely above the crackle. “He helped me raise my children.”

That made Korgul’s brow lift. “Children.”

“Three,” she said. “Two daughters, one son. They were young when I last saw them. Goblins.”

For a moment, something flickered behind the Warchief’s one good eye interest. “Goblins, hm? Then they would be grown now likely. There are many goblins in these warrens. What makes yours worth remembering?”

Her jaw tightened. “They’re mine.”

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound like rocks grinding together. “Spoken like a mother. Few survive long enough to call themselves that down here.”

Yamaba’s tone sharpened. “I have names. A girl called Ruki. She’d have my eyes. Quick hands. A hunter. And a boy, Taro. Taller, proud. He wanted to prove himself. If they’re alive…”

Korgul tilted his head, half-smile creeping across his tusked mouth. “Ruki, yes. The name passes through the campfires. A goblin huntress, reckless but clever. East tunnels, if memory serves.”

Yamaba’s breath hitched. “She’s alive, then.”

“Perhaps,” he said lazily. “If she hasn’t fed the beasts yet.”

She pressed on, voice tighter now. “And Taro?”

The warlord rose to his full height, looming like a living monument. “Taro…” He seemed to savor the name. “There’s a warrior among my scouts who calls himself that. Green-blooded, loud, with too much pride for his size. If he is yours, he fights well.”

Her composure faltered for just a heartbeat a tremor in her voice when she asked, “Could I see them?”

Korgul leaned forward, his tusks gleaming in the firelight. “In time, perhaps. But you are mine now, Elf. Bound by Morgroth’s mark. You’ll advise me first. Prove your loyalty. Then maybe…” His grin deepened. “…a reunion can be arranged.”

Yamaba’s pulse quickened. “You’d use my children as leverage.”

“I would use everything,” he said simply. “That is what strength means.”

She wanted to strike him to tear that smug calm from his face but the mark beneath her navel pulsed, a reminder that rebellion came with pain. She exhaled slowly instead, forcing her tone back to civility. “And the third?”

Korgul frowned slightly. “Third?”

“Sayo, my youngest,” Yamaba said. “She would have been likely taken by the shamans. Gifted, even as a child.”

The Warchief’s expression turned distant, then dismissive. “If the shamans took her, she belongs to Morgroth now. They do not return what they claim.”

Yamaba bowed her head to hide the flicker of anguish in her eyes.

Korgul circled her slowly, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. “You ask about your blood,” he said softly. “That is good. It means you still have something to lose.” He stopped just behind her shoulder, his breath hot against her ear. “That will make this easier.”

She didn’t move.

“You’ll advise me, elf,” he continued, his tone almost gentle now. “You’ll help me unify the warrens, and I’ll help you find your kin. In a year’s time, if you’ve served well…” His tusks brushed her hair as he leaned closer. “…you’ll have your answers. And perhaps, a place here at my side.”

Yamaba **** herself to stay still. “And if I refuse?”

Korgul chuckled. “You won’t.”

He stepped away, the firelight glinting off his scars. “Report to my shaman tomorrow. She’ll assign your first task.”

Yamaba bowed stiffly, turned, and left the tent.

The cold air outside hit her like a slap, but it was the only thing that kept her steady. She walked without looking back, her mind a storm of memory and fury.

(He thinks I’ll break. He doesn’t understand. I’ve been broken before. And I survived that too.)

Still, the smallest, most fragile part of her whispered beneath the iron resolve

Ruki. Taro. Sayo… please, don’t let him find you first.

The drums outside settled into a steady cadence by the time Norki ducked back through the flap, a sloshing skin of water over one shoulder and a bundle of fresh bandages under his arm. He paused when he saw the fading panel glow on Alice’s palm, then tried to pretend he hadn’t.

“Uh report,” he blurted, almost saluting with the water skin before thinking better of it. “Two minor hunting parties due back by midday. Arena drills this afternoon. The quartermaster sent salves we actually asked for, which I think is a miracle.”

Jolie grinned. “Miracles confirmed.”

Norki’s eyes flicked to Alice and away again, ears betraying him with a quick, nervous twitch. “Also… the Matron-Shaman is doing rounds. Inspection. She… she likes order.” He swallowed. “She’ll probably come here.”

Alice felt the brand under her navel warm, not pain, just a reminder. (Behave. Smile. Don’t give them a reason.) She nodded. “Then we’ll be ready.”

They worked fast. Jolie aired the furs and tightened the triage stretchers; Alice sorted the tinctures Norki had labeled last night, forcing her mind to memorize the names scrawled on each jar. The tent took on the calm of a tidy battlefield, everything placed, everything within reach.

The first patients were easy an orc with a split knuckle from a bad hammer swing; a goblin boy, ears ringing from a botched powder charge; a hobgoblin runner with a sprained ankle who pretended it didn’t hurt until Alice raised an eyebrow. Quick touch, quick light, careful smiles. When the brand hummed with quiet approval, Alice pretended she didn’t notice.

Norki hovered close, passing gauze, cutting cloth, lighting lamps more competent with his hands than his voice. Whenever Alice thanked him, his tail did that involuntary little swish, and he’d hide behind his hair like it could shield his thoughts.

Midmorning, a courier stuck his head in. “Inspection in ten,” he grunted. “Make it pretty.”

Jolie set her hands on her hips. “We are pretty.”

Alice elbowed her, then smoothed the coverlets anyway.

The Matron-Shaman arrived with a hush that beat the drumline outside old, iron-spined, tusks carved with runes, and eyes that measured like scales. She walked the perimeter without speaking, brushed a fingertip along a table edge (no dust), lifted a bandage roll (tight, even), pivoted to Alice and Jolie.

“Healers,” she said, voice like dry bark. “You serve clean. You will continue to serve clean.”

Jolie dipped her head, all bright politeness. “Yes, Matron.”

The elder’s gaze lingered on Alice’s face for a long, unreadable moment. “You’re new to obedience,” she said not a question. “Learn quickly.” She turned, satisfied, and swept out with her aides.

Alice let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. (One crisis down.)

Norki sagged in the doorway, relieved. “She, uh… liked you,” he whispered, as if admitting a crush.

Before Alice could answer, another messenger trotted up, armor scuffed with dust. “Arenas want you on standby,” he barked. “Sparring matches escalated. Bravado season.”

“Bravado season?” Jolie blinked.

Norki grimaced. “When rival squads try to impress the Warchief before a campaign. Lots of ‘accidental’ injuries.”

They packed a field kit: poultices, splints, burn gel, stitching thread. Alice shouldered the satchel, surprised at how natural it felt already. (Level five and carrying a hospital. Sure. Why not.)

As they stepped out into the artery-street, the stronghold surged around them goblins bartering fungus loaves, orcs sharpening bone-cleavers, hobgoblins shouting inventory from makeshift scaffolds. Armor clattered, banners snapped, beasts huffed at their tethers. No one spared the branded healers more than a glance… and somehow that anonymity made Alice’s heart pound even harder.

Norki kept pace at her side, a little too close, then a little too far like a pendulum trying to find center. “If anyone gives you trouble at the arenas,” he said, voice low, “stand behind me.”

Jolie snorted. “You planning to duel a seven-foot berserker with your book?”

Norki flushed, squared his shoulders anyway. “With the rules,” he said, and for just a second he looked oddly stubborn. “Arenas answer to the law, too.”

Alice couldn’t help smiling. “Noted, Norki. Thanks.”

They reached the Blood Arenas’ outer ring stone terraces chiseled right into the canyon wall, the floor a churn of red dust and pride. Two squads clashed in the pit below, blunt practice weapons cracking like thunder. A horn blared; cheers rolled; a rookie got cocky and ate a shield to the teeth.

“Here we go,” Jolie murmured, flexing her fingers. “On your mark, partner.”

Alice’s brand thrummed once warning or benediction, she couldn’t tell. (Heal. Obey. Survive.)

She set her kit down on the healer’s bench, met Jolie’s eyes, and nodded.

“Let’s work.”

The arenas turned into a blur.

Orc after orc staggered up from the pit split lips, cracked ribs, dislocated shoulders, burns from show-off pyromancers, one poor idiot with a spear haft lodged between two ribs like a misplaced fence post. Alice and Jolie fell into rhythm: assess, clean, set, glow, seal. The air tasted like iron and dust; the healer’s bench shook every time a cheer rolled through the stands.

By noon, Alice’s palms trembled with that hollow, glassy ache she now recognized too well. The warm hum at her navel cooled into a warning prickle.

(Out. I’m running out)

Norki was there before she finished the thought, hovering at her elbow with that earnest, too-serious look. “Matron’s summons,” he lied smoothly to a passing sergeant, tail flicking once. “Healers to… check stock. Very urgent.”

The orc grunted and waved them off.

Jolie snagged Alice’s hand. “Two minutes.”

They ducked behind a curtain of canvas strung between gear racks, into a narrow service nook that smelled like leather and boiled resin. Jolie pushed Alice up against the wall, attacking her mouth in a searing kiss. They fumbled with each other's trousers, shoving them down just enough to free Alice's straining cock. Jolie hiked herself up, wrapping her strong legs around Alice's hips and sinking down onto her hard on with a breathy moan.

Alice thrust up into her hot cunt, again and again, chasing her pleasure. Jolie was right there with her, riding her hard, using her thighs to rise and fall, the wet slap of flesh against flesh filling the small space. Alice's hips stuttered as she came with a muffled groan, spilling deep inside Jolie’s cunt. The other healer followed moments later with a strangled cry, burying her face in Alice's neck to muffle the sound.

They reemerged with flushed faces and steady hands, and no one asked questions mostly because Norki was already in front of the bench, scolding a pair of blood-spattered brawlers for dripping on the clean trays like a pint-sized quartermaster.

It happened again an hour later. And again after that.

Each time, the work pulled the mana out of them like tide from a shore each time, Norki somehow sensed the exact moment their light started to gutter. He’d materialize with a mumbled pretext “Inspection,” “Bandage audit,” “Matron hates knots, we must… un-knot things” and steer them toward the same curtained nook.

Alice pressed Jolie face down over a crate, flipping up her skirt and shoving inside her with a single brutal thrust. Jolie keened, fingers digging into the wood for purchase as Alice proceeded to fuck her hard and fast, the smack of their bodies echoing obscenely loud in the tight space. They came within minutes, **** for the mana and the reprieve it would bring.

Back on the bench, Alice could feel her flow smoothing out, the golden shimmer in her fingers turning from sputter to stream. She fixed a cracked collarbone in three breaths; Jolie threaded shut a torn trapezius like a seamstress with lightning for thread. They didn’t brag. They didn’t have to. The line kept moving.

By late afternoon, even the loudmouths started paying them a wary respect. Helmets dipped in thanks. One hulking veteran kept bringing them water in a dented helm, setting it down like an offering. Alice tried not to smile, failed anyway.

Between patients, Norki replenished gauze, organized salves by label color, and ran interference with the arena stewards like he’d been doing this his whole life. He never mentioned the “breaks.” He didn’t even look at the curtain. But when Alice handed a stitched-and-stabilized rookie back to his squad, she caught Norki watching her with a quick, guilty concern that made her chest tighten.

(He knows. He’s covering for us. Gods, he’s… adorable.)

Near sunset, a double bout got out of hand; three bodies hit the sand in as many heartbeats. Alice and Jolie split the triage without talking. Burn gel hissed; bones slid back into sockets with wet pops; breath caught and then thank the gods came again. The brand at Alice’s belly stayed warm, not hot. Obedience. Service. Survival.

When the horn finally called the last match, the stands erupted and then emptied, the arena exhaling like a beast settling to sleep. Alice sagged onto the bench, sweat cooling on her skin, arms leaden.

Norki padded over with two cups of moss fizz and a shy, lopsided smile. “You… did well,” he said, voice soft. “They’ll talk about today.”

Jolie clinked her cup to Alice’s. “To being useful.”

Alice nodded, eyes on the little hobgoblin as he fussed with their kit, pretending not to watch them drink. “To good excuses,” she murmured, and when he startled and then tried to hide a smile behind his hair, her heart did an embarrassing little flip.

(He’s learning our rhythm. And we’re learning theirs.)

Outside, the canyon light went from red to bruised violet. The drums quieted. Somewhere, a wolf mount huffed in its stall. Alice drained the last of the moss fizz and set the cup down carefully.

“Same tomorrow?” Jolie asked, already knowing the answer.

“Same tomorrow,” Alice said, and for the first time since the brand, the words didn’t scare her.

The air in the Warchief’s tent was stifling, thick with incense, sweat, and the musky scent of orc males. Every breath Yamaba drew made her throat ache.

Gone were her necromancer’s robes. In their place hung the silks of the Warchief’s harem thin, dark crimson, patterned with gold thread that caught the torchlight in flashes. It was clothing meant for display, not for dignity. The realization burned deeper than the brand across her stomach.

“Again,” the shaman ordered, her voice steady but cruel.

Yamaba obeyed, lowering herself into another squat, arms raised high above her head. Her legs screamed. Her body trembled. The floor of the tent felt like it tilted beneath her as exhaustion crept in. Every time her knees wobbled and she thought she might collapse, the brand ignited.

It was not simple pain. It was a pulse of divine correction, an invasive current that seared through thought and will alike. The world went white behind her eyes, and when the haze cleared, she was already standing again, moving without choice.

The Warchief watched from his seat of carved bone and black hide, golden eye half-lidded, tusked smile unreadable. His heavy armor was gone; only a simple war-kilt remained, the marks of old scars crossing his chest like maps of conquest. At 12 feet tall, he towered over her, his bulge unmistakable.

“You tire quickly for one who claims to have commanded the dead,” he rumbled. “Are bones lighter than flesh, Yamaba?”

She said nothing. Speaking risked another spark from the brand. Her breath came shallow, each exhale trembling. Sweat traced paths down her spine beneath the silks. The air reeked of him iron, musk, fire and it was starting to sink into her skin. His pheromones were overwhelming, clouding her mind and making her body tremble with unwanted need.

The shaman moved closer, inspecting her trembling form with all the warmth of a butcher. “She resists still,” she said, her voice a growl. “The mark will teach her soon enough.”

“Good,” murmured the Warchief. “A proud woman must learn pride’s cost.”

Yamaba’s fingers twitched. For a heartbeat, she thought of her children Ruki, her brave daughter, and Taro, the son she’d lost to the orcs’ ranks. That memory alone was dangerous. It reminded her of who she’d been before this place.

The brand flared.

Her knees buckled. The jolt ripped through her like a lightning strike, not just in the body but in the mind. Her resolve shuddered and cracked. When she gasped, the sound that came out didn’t sound like defiance anymore. It sounded like submission.

The Warchief was on her in an instant, wrenching her up to her knees and tearing away the insubstantial silk like it was nothing. He **** her head down, shoving her face into the plush furs as he yanked her hips back and lined up his massive member. At nearly 2 feet long and as thick as her head, Yamaba knew taking him inside her elven cunt would be a nearly impossible feat.

The Warchief seemed to realize this too. Instead, he pressed his huge cock between her ample ass cheeks, sandwiching his impressive girth in the warm, soft valley. Yamaba gasped as she felt his slick, throbbing heat sliding against her most intimate places.

With a growl, the Warchief began thrusting, hot dogging her with wild abandon. Yamaba could do nothing but take it, the brand forcing her body to comply, to arch and shiver in building ecstasy even as her mind recoiled at the humiliating act. It was debasement of the highest order.

Yamaba felt the Warchief's pace quicken, his huge cock shuttling frantically between her cheeks. She knew he was getting close. Sure enough, with a roar, the Warchief came, ropes of hot cum splashing across Yamaba's lower back and ass, marking her with his seed. The smell of it filled the air, mixing with his potent musk - an intoxicating aroma she couldn't help but breathe deep. With every lungful, she could feel the last of her resistance slipping away, even as her pussy throbbed with unfulfilled need.

When he pulled away with a satisfied grunt and strode away, Yamaba collapsed to the furs, trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure and humiliation. Her own arousal and the Warchief's cum smeared together, coating her thighs and backside. She felt filthy, used, and utterly debased. Yet she couldn't deny the aching emptiness inside her that longed to be filled.

The Warchief left her there, panting and needy, as he returned to his throne. His seed and the intoxicating aroma of his musk would keep her docile until he decided to use her again. Yamaba shivered, hating herself for the part of her that eagerly anticipated it.

Yamaba collapsed to the furs, trembling in the aftershocks of her unwanted climax. The scent of sex mingled with the ash and sweat in the air, a mocking testament to her humiliation.

When the moment passed, Yamaba found herself kneeling, hands pressed flat to the ground, the scent of ash and sweat clinging to her like a second skin. The shaman’s shadow stretched long across the furs beside her, and the Warchief’s deep voice cut through the haze.

“You learn quickly,” he said. “Serve well, and your pain will fade. The brand can be merciful to those who obey.”

Yamaba stared at the floor, every muscle trembling, breath shallow and uneven. She wanted to hate him. To hate all of them. Yet beneath the humiliation, something in her chest twisted not desire, but confusion. The brand had left something inside her pulsing, faint and treacherous.

The Warchief rose from his throne once more and stepped close enough that she could feel his heat. His hand brushed her chin, forcing her to look up.

“One year,” he said softly. “In a year’s time, you’ll no longer remember what it meant to resist. You’ll thank me before it’s done.”

When he withdrew his hand, Yamaba stayed kneeling, trembling, the faint burn of the brand still echoing through her nerves.

[SYSTEM NOTICE BRAND OF SERVITUDE UPDATE]

Source: Divine Relay from the Laughing Forge.

Obedience detected. Resistance quotient diminished by 17%.

Neural pathways within host “Yamaba” are adapting to corrective flame.

Pain response subsiding; reverence protocol initializing.

Status

Mental Alignment: Partial Compliance

Brand Temperature: Stable (sub-reactive phase)

Cognitive Drift: Subservience stimuli elevated

Memory Interference: Fragments of prior rebellion suppressed for “peace of service.”

New Directive

Serve. Learn the rhythm of command.

The brand rewards stillness, not struggle.

Each moment of obedience cools the flame; each spark of defiance feeds it anew.

[DICE’S COMMENTARY]

“Oh look, she’s finally stopped trying to head-butt divine law. Progress! Morgroth’s little leash-script just rewrote half her pride like bad code. Don’t worry, Yamaba what’s left of you will really love orcs soon. Probably.”

Yamaba lay face-down on the furs, muscles locked and trembling. Every nerve in her body felt scorched, every breath shallow. The air was heavy with incense and iron. The world around her was a blur of red light and smoke.

[System Notice Brand of Servitude Update]

Obedience threshold: accepted. Neural alignment stabilizing.

Emotional resistance: 43% reduced.

“Peace through obedience” protocol active.

The words flickered through her vision in faint gold, half-hallucination, half-system message.

(“Peace through obedience?” she thought dimly. “What does that even mean?”)

Her limbs wouldn’t respond. It was as if the brand had stolen her body’s weight, leaving only breath and thought. She tried to cling to something familiar to the memory of her children, to the cold comfort of necromancy’s discipline but each thought frayed as the heat in her belly pulsed again.

“I won’t… break,” she whispered, though her voice cracked on the word.

Another pulse answered, sharp and electric, running up her spine. The pain didn’t feel like punishment anymore. It felt like correction. Guidance.

Her heart hammered. (No. That’s wrong. That’s not me. That’s the brand talking.)

[Cognitive Drift Warning]

Defiance detected. Initiating reverence stabilizer.

The glow behind her eyelids brightened until all she could see was red. Her thoughts scattered like ashes in wind, leaving only fragments voices, heat, and the echo of the Warchief’s command: Serve well, and your pain will fade.

When the light finally dimmed, Yamaba was still trembling, but the fear was quieter now. It had been replaced by something emptier, a numb stillness that frightened her more than pain ever could.

The days blurred into one another.

Morning light became meaningless beneath the red haze that always hung over Fangspire. The air reeked of smoke, salt, and burnt fur, and the healers’ tent had begun to feel less like a sanctuary and more like a furnace that never cooled.

It had been at least a month since the branding.

Alice had stopped counting the days after twenty. The system kept track of time for her, but she didn’t open it anymore there was no point. Every day followed the same rhythm: the sound of boots, the smell of blood, the weight of dying bodies being carried through the flap.

The beast’s name had become a curse spoken only in whispers. The Ignis-Beast hadn’t been slain; it wandered the borderlands still, setting forest and field alike aflame. What the hunters dragged in were the lucky ones the ones it hadn’t finished.

The latest orc was brought in half-dead, his entire left side blackened like charcoal. His armor had melted into his skin, and his hair had burned away. The moment they laid him on the furs, the tent filled with the stench of scorched fat.

Jolie was already at his side. “Third this week,” she muttered, her voice hoarse from overuse. “If this keeps up, they’ll run out of hunters before they run out of pride.”

Alice pressed her palms to the wound, her light flickering weakly from sheer fatigue. “Hold him still.”

The orc convulsed, a strangled growl bubbling from his throat. Norki rushed to his other side, holding down the orc’s arm with all his strength. His small frame trembled, but he didn’t look away, not once.

The healing light hissed as it met the burns, filling the tent with steam. Alice grit her teeth as her mana drained faster than she could control it. Every time she thought she’d reached her limit, another patient came in screaming.

They healed until their reserves hit zero.

Then they slipped away behind the inner curtain always together, always silent about it and returned later glowing faintly with renewed strength.

Norki never asked what happened. But by now, he didn’t have to.

He could tell when it was coming the slight tremor in Alice’s hands, the dull glassiness in Jolie’s eyes, the way both of them moved like marionettes held together by willpower alone. When that moment came, he’d quietly hand them an excuse: an errand, an inventory check, a trip for clean bandages. He never looked them in the eye when he said it, just whispered, “Go on. I’ll cover for you.”

Alice didn’t know if he understood the truth of what they did behind the curtain but sometimes, when she caught him looking away, she thought he did. And he never judged.

He just made sure the tent stayed quiet, that the patients didn’t see, and that there was always a clean cup of moss tea waiting for them when they came back.

Now, as another night fell, Alice sat by the flap, staring at the firelight flickering against the canvas. The drums of Fangspire echoed faintly outside, steady as a heartbeat. Norki was washing blood from the floorboards, humming softly a tune that sounded like something his mother might have sung long ago.

Jolie slumped beside her, rubbing her temples. “You realize we’ve become their hospital, right? The whole damn warband. We’re one bad day away from being part of it.”

Alice exhaled slowly, staring at the brand beneath her shirt. The skin around it still pulsed faintly with every heartbeat, like a second pulse that wasn’t hers. “Maybe we already are.”

Jolie followed her gaze. “You still feel it?”

“Every time I think about leaving,” Alice murmured. “It warms up just enough to remind me.” She smiled weakly. “Guess Morgroth likes us where we are.”

Norki glanced up from his work, his ears twitching. “You shouldn’t talk about him like that,” he said softly. “The mark hears you.”

Alice gave him a tired smile. “So do you.”

He flushed faintly and turned back to his washing. “I’m just saying… the brand keeps you safe as long as you don’t fight it. That’s how it works for the others.”

Jolie groaned and threw her arm over her eyes. “Yeah, but it’s the others I don’t trust.”

Outside, the war drums boomed again closer this time.

Norki paused, tail flicking. “Hunters,” he said quietly. “Another group just came back.”

Alice rose slowly, exhaustion rolling off her in waves. “Then let’s get ready,” she said. “The fire walks again tonight.”

The night stretched long, the air in the healer’s tent thick with incense and fatigue. The furs were soaked with the scent of herbs and blood. For the thousandth time, Alice pressed glowing hands to a dying orc’s chest and felt nothing no spark left to give.

Her mana was gone again. Jolie’s too. The light between them had guttered out to faint, useless embers.

Outside, the cries of the wounded kept coming.

Alice slumped back against the table, breathing hard. “We can’t do this anymore,” she whispered. “Two healers. Dozens of burns every day. We’re not enough.”

Jolie wiped a hand across her face, smearing soot down her cheek. “Then we find a way to be enough.”

Alice’s gaze flicked toward Norki. The young hobgoblin was kneeling by the basin, scrubbing crimson from his arms. The lamplight caught on his hair, still damp with sweat. He’d grown paler over the past few weeks, his hands raw from work, but he never complained. He stayed until the last torch went out.

“He could help,” Alice said quietly. “He’s young, but… he’s full of energy. Even without his system unlocked, if he fucked us that energy could get us through this.”

Jolie’s brow lifted. “You mean have him fuck us both? Take turns riding him until we recharge?”

Alice hesitated. “It’s risky. His body might not handle it. And if Leo found out…”

Jolie gave a low laugh. “Leo? Please. He’d probably get off on watching. Call it ‘teamwork.’ The guy’s too voyeuristic to be jealous.”

Alice frowned faintly. “That’s not the point.”

“It’s exactly the point,” Jolie said, leaning forward. “He’d trust you to make the call. You said yourself the kid’s kind, steady, doesn’t flinch around orcs. That’s rare here. And he's exactly the non-threatening pretty boy type Leo would be fine being cucked by.”

She nudged Alice’s shoulder. “Besides… you like him. Don’t deny it. You wouldn't mind riding his cock a few times.”

Alice looked away, embarrassed. “He’s just… easy to be around.”

“And easy to trust,” Jolie added gently. “If we don’t find another cock to fuck soon, people will start dying again. You want that on your conscience? When we have a perfectly good femboy right here?”

The tent was quiet for a long moment except for the crackle of the braziers outside. "Maybe we should invite him to join our harem when we leave," Jolie mused. "I bet Leo would love playing with a cute boy like Norki.