Bait and Execution

Gor'ka moved like mist, silent and sure. She let the weight of memory guide her, let the forest cradle her steps. She thought of the stone fires of her childhood, of her father's voice teaching her the names of the stars, of the songs of warriors long gone—all now ashes. That loss burned within her still, not as grief, but as iron resolve. The night embraced her like a mother returning for her wayward child.

She stepped into the ragged edge of torchlight, her form hunched, her gait uneven. Every detail of her posture whispered exhaustion, injury, weakness.

It was theater. It was bait.

And they took it.

Around a low-burning fire, the orcs sat hunched on crude logs and stones, their thick voices rumbling like distant thunder. Greasy smoke curled into the night air, mingling with the stench of sweat, iron, and half-rotted meat. They gnawed at bones, passed a dented flask between them, and spoke in the guttural language of their kind—sharp-edged words filled with contempt and violence.

"Scout should be back by now," one grunted, scratching at a scarred cheek. "Dead probably. Fool went too far."

Another spat into the fire. "Good. If he ain't back, less to share the meat."

Their leader, broader than the rest, turned his tusked maw toward the ragged shape tied near the edge of the camp—the wounded human. "We'll eat him at first light. Weak little thing won't last the night anyway."

Laughter rumbled through the group. Harsh. Cruel. One orc leaned closer to the fire, squinting into the trees.

"And if she comes back... the traitor bitch... we'll gut her slow. Let Urdok watch."

Their mood was ugly. Restless. Hungry for blood.

She crouched low at the edge of the treeline, heart steady, mind sharp. For a brief moment, she let herself feel the weight of it all. The faces of the fallen. The betrayal that had forced her hand. The blood she would spill tonight was not vengeance. It was necessity.

These creatures had taken everything from her. They had shattered her home, stolen her bloodline, and left her cast out. But from their cruelty, she had learned the oldest truth of all: fire hardens iron. And she was iron now.

Weakness is the root they trample. Strength is the only tongue they understand.

Let them believe I am broken.

Let them believe I am prey.

Let them come.

And that was when Gor'ka stepped into the torchlight.

"There! It's her!"

"She lives!"

"She dares return?"

Chaos surged like a wave. Orcs scrambled to their feet. Some clawed for weapons. Others shouted warnings or curses. None hesitated.

"She betrayed us!" one of them roared, spit flying from broken tusks. "Urdok will skin her!"

Perfect.

Gor'ka let her voice cut across the clearing, rough and commanding.

""Lay down your weapons! Give me the human, and perhaps my Grakh'tul will spare your worthless lives!"

The words echoed like a challenge thrown into their faces.

The orcs froze—shocked, confused. Then the realization hit them like a blow: she had joined with the half-elf. She had chosen him.

"She shares his bed!" one spat in fury. "The traitor whore lies with the enemy!"

Gor'ka's lips curled into a grin, sharp as her blade.

"Yes," she thought coldly. "Choke on it. Fear me all the more for it."

Their leader roared, voice thick with wounded pride. "No deal, traitor-bitch! We'll gut you both and send your heads to Urdok!"

Perfect.

Let them hate.

Let them follow their doom."

The orcs froze for a heartbeat. Then cruel laughter erupted from their ranks.

Their leader stepped forward, tusked grin wide and dripping with scorn. "No deal, traitor-bitch. Give us your throat, and maybe Urdok will keep you breathing long enough to play with you before we gut you."

The others jeered, slamming weapons against shields, hunger gleaming in their eyes.

Good, she thought.

Let them hate. Let them follow their doom.

And then she moved — swift and silent into the dark.

Gor'ka allowed herself a faint smile. Her eyes, sharp as flint, never left the line of trees ahead.

And then she ran.

She didn't sprint—not at first. Her pace was quick enough to tempt them, slow enough to infuriate. Behind her, heavy boots pounded the earth. The ground quivered with their weight. She heard them curse, heard them bellow.

Three broke away without hesitation—reckless, blood-hungry. Just as planned. Others hesitated, gathering weapons, unsure whether to stay or follow.

But it didn't matter. Three was enough.

Gor'ka led them deeper into the woods, weaving through trees that rose like silent witnesses. She felt the rhythm of pursuit behind her—fast, clumsy, overconfident.

Come, then, she thought. Follow the traitor. See where it leads you.

Leopold waited in the dark.

He crouched low behind the ridge, hidden beneath roots slick with moss, his hands gripping the haft of his axe. His breath came slow, steady. His body hummed with focus, every muscle coiled and ready.

He heard them before he saw them.

And the old voice within him stirred again. Twisted. Hungry. A shadow with his own face.

Oh, how I've missed this, it purred. The thrill of the hunt. The breaking of bones. Their screams are music. Their terror is wine.

Leopold gritted his teeth, but he did not push the voice away.

Not tonight.

The six remaining orcs chased Gor'ka relentlessly through the forest, driven by rage and wounded pride. But she led them well—into the trap they could not see.

Gor'ka raced past him like a shadow, her breath harsh but steady. The orcs thundered after her, blind with fury. As the first one passed Leopold's hidden position, he surged up like a predator uncaged.

His axe came down in a savage arc, splitting the orc's skull clean. Blood splashed warm across his face. The second orc whirled in shock, shouting an alarm—too late.

One of them turned toward Gor'ka, lunging to strike her from behind. But she spun on him like a wolf, leapt onto his back, and sank her teeth into his neck. As he staggered, howling, she drove her dagger into his side again and again until he fell.

Leopold roared, his axe meeting steel and bone. He dropped two more orcs in a brutal whirlwind of strikes, but not without cost. A blade scraped through a wound along his ribs, searing white-hot pain through him. His lips curled into a grin as the old voice in him laughed madly.

More! More! Drown them in their own blood!

Only two remained now.

The fifth orc lunged at Gor'ka, his blade flashing in desperation. She ducked low, feeling the wind of his strike graze past her ear, and drove her dagger into his knee. The orc howled in agony, stumbling. Without hesitation, she sprang upward, her dagger plunging beneath his chin, silencing him forever.

The last orc backed away, eyes wide with desperation and fury. Blood matted his fur, his muscles trembled from exhaustion. Yet still, he raised his axe and roared, "For Urdok!"

He charged.

Leopold stepped forward, his own wounds burning but forgotten in the rising storm within him. The old voice laughed, exulting in the final kill.

End him. No mercy. Break him.

They moved together — Leopold and Gor'ka, closing from both sides. The orc realized too late his doom was upon him. His wild swing met only empty air as Gor'ka feinted left. Leopold's axe came in from the right — a brutal, two-handed arc.

Steel met flesh.

The orc's cry was cut short, his body crumpling to the blood-soaked earth.

Leopold stood over the bodies, chest heaving, his arms slick with blood. His axe dripped crimson in the pale moonlight.

He didn't feel victory.

He felt the pull of something darker—the thing he had buried. The thing he feared.

Gor'ka approached him slowly, her steps soft on the blood-wet earth.

She placed a hand on his shoulder—firm, grounding.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "Come, we should return to the camp and rest."

Leopold nodded slowly. "Yes... but first, let's lo...their Boddys... I mean, plunder it."

Gor'ka let out a low, rough laugh. "Hah! Now you speak like a true orc. Take what is yours, Grakh'tul."

They moved back toward the ruined camp, their steps slow, burdened by wounds and exhaustion.

They found him there. Karl.

Leopold knelt beside the fallen mercenary, whose chest barely rose with shallow breath. The man's eyes fluttered open, clouded with pain.

"Your eyes... something... is different," Karl rasped.

Leopold's voice was rough, almost gentle. "Shhh... Karl. You fought well. I wish we could have done more for you."

A strange ache twisted in his chest. Where did this mercy come from?

End it, the old voice urged inside him.

He hesitated. Gor'ka stepped beside him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder.

"Grant this warrior his peace, Grakh'tul. Release him."

Leopold exhaled slowly, nodding.

He leaned down, wrapped his arm around Karl in one last gesture of respect and brotherhood.

And ended it.

Gor'ka watched in silence.

When it was done, she spoke softly. "Let us bury him. Then we shall rest."