h-oh.

  She’s pissed.

  Don’t pretend you didn’t feel it—that pulse beneath your feet like a war drum. That weight in the air? Yeah, that pressure humming in your teeth? That’s ruin-song, darling. That’s old blood waking up.

  This place remembers.

  The stones remember.

  And she—the orc—she’s the one they’re singing to.

  Every step she takes echoes like thunder off the bones of this dead place. Not just footsteps. Warnings.

  And those axes of hers?

  Oh, they’re singing now.

  Hungry. Flashing with that gleam that says someone’s about to bleed. They don’t swing—they promise.

  So, sweetheart...

  What exactly is your plan?

  Wait—don’t look at me like that.

  You’re turning to me now? Really?

  Gods, that’s cute.

  Adorable, even.

  But let’s clear something up: I’m not real.

  I’m a whisper. A flicker. A late-night thought in silk and sarcasm.

  Born somewhere between fear, instinct, and that part of you that never learned to shut up.

  I live in your head, Grant.

  I am your head.

  The only part of you still thinking clearly while your body stands frozen.

  And no—I can’t move your feet for you.

  That’s all you.

  You’re just… standing there.

  Still. Quiet. Noble as a statue and twice as useless.

  Sure, your grip’s tight. The weapon in your hands? Looks sharp enough. But tell me, love—

  Do you really think that’s going to stop her?

  “I don’t want to hurt her.”

  Oh, Grant.

  So noble.

  So tragic.

  So utterly doomed.

  Honestly, it’s almost poetic. The kind of line they’ll carve on your headstone—if there’s enough left of you to bury.

  Because listen to me, and listen well:

  She’s not here to talk.

  She’s not here for peace or mercy or some heartfelt reconciliation arc.

  She’s an orc.

  And right now?

  She’s gone.

  Lost to the rage.

  Eyes full of blood. Mind full of ghosts. Heart pounding like a battlefield drum.

  You are not facing the woman.

  You are facing the war inside her.

  That grief? It’s fuel. That pain? It’s fire in her veins. That watch she found? That little piece of memory you probably didn’t even see? It broke something in her.

  She’s high on adrenaline.

  Drunk on grief.

  And she only understands one thing now—violence.

  Words won’t reach her.

  She won’t hear poetry.

  She won’t feel your guilt.

  She will feel the blow you don’t throw.

  She will take your hesitation and carve it out of you, piece by piece.

  So, tell me, Grant—

  What’s it going to be?

  Are you going to move?

  Or are you going to die clinging to all that compassion like it’s armor and not just another pretty lie?

  Because ready or not— here she comes.

  A boom splits the stillness—sharp, hungry, too close.

  Roaka twists before her brain catches up. Instinct moves her. Her boots skid on cracked stone as she pivots, just barely dodging the arcane blast screaming past her ear. It singes the air. Heat brushes her temple.

  Then the scent hits. Burnt ozone. Bitter ether. Smells like old blood and bad magic. She curls her lip.

  “The fuck?” she growls, voice raw, scraped across her teeth.

  So. He’s a caster now.

  Wasn’t one before.

  Her eyes narrow. No mana stink. No greasy shimmer. None of that twitchy static that sticks to spell-flingers like flies on meat. Just... clean. Too clean.

  She snarls. “Doesn’t matter.”

  And lunges.

  Low and brutal. No wind-up. No warning. A living battering ram. Boots grind against ancient stone, muscles coil, and her charge hits like a goddamned avalanche.

  But he doesn’t cast again.

  He swings.

  Blunt end of his weapon comes around hard—crude, but tight. Controlled. It slams into her axes with a shriek of steel. Sparks bloom, hot against her skin. The impact crashes through her arms, rattles her teeth.

  She laughs, wild and sharp. “You strong, man-flesh.”

  "Right back at ya, darling," he grunts, jaw tight, eyes like flint. That smile—half warning, half flirt—makes something primal uncoil in her gut.

  He’s fast. Too fast.

  Precise. No wasted steps.

  Roaka approves.

  She’s shattered ogres. Gutted elf-lords mid-prayer. Beast-kin barely last five seconds when her rage kicks in. But this one? He moves like water—fast, cold, quiet.

  His elbow drives into her ribs. Pain bursts white behind her eyes, sharp and clean. She exhales through it, leans into the rhythm. When he swings again, she catches it flat on her axe—and shoves.

  He stumbles back. Feet scrape stone. Grunt escapes his throat.

  She follows slow. Grinning. Breathing steady.

  “Gorik’d piss himself trying to keep up,” she mutters. “Rin too. Maybe even Elara. You... might be stronger.”

  Then the world changes.

  Not metaphor. Not hallucination.

  The stone itself shifts.

  Walls grind, stretch, move—like bones popping in and out of socket. Solid shapes melt into arms. Not human. Not beast. Just wrong.

  The ruins aren’t ruins anymore.

  They’re watching.

  Roaka doesn’t retreat. But she doesn’t advance either.

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  The ground under her feet—it isn’t hers anymore.

  She wipes the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. Slow. Deliberate. Eyes gleaming like a drawn blade in torchlight.

  “You need walls to win?”

  His eyes go wide—not scared. Surprised. Honest.

  “That’s not me,” he says. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Lies.” Her voice is low and cold, full of certainty. “You no scout. Too strong. Too still. You sneaky—yes. But you not soft. Not coward.”

  He doesn’t argue.

  He moves.

  A ripple of shadow leaps across the ruins—wall to wall—then he’s airborne. Faster than before. Cleaner. The weapon in his hands glows hot with sigils, inked in violet fire. They crawl up the haft like veins, alive. Sentient. Hungry.

  Roaka doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. She waits.

  The next blast is louder. Deep enough to shake the stone. Meaner.

  She doesn’t dodge.

  She meets it.

  Axes cross in front of her chest, iron forged into an X. The arcane blast slams into the guard. Heat scorches. Magic screams. The air flashes white. The strike breaks upward in a shriek of smoke and light. Her knuckles burn. Arms scream. But her stance holds.

  Still as a mountain.

  He drops his weapon a fraction, panting. One shoulder rolls back slow. Pain or relief—Roaka can’t tell. His mouth twitches, almost a smile. Not mockery. Something else.

  Respect?

  “Ma’am,” he says, breath hitching, half a laugh, half a warning, “on my life—I have no idea what’s happening. I’m just a simple man. One who’d really rather not die... again.”

  Roaka’s grin is gone. Just teeth now. Sharp. Sure.

  “That so?”

  Her voice drops—low, heavy. The kind that echoes in your ribs long after she’s stopped talking.

  “You no fight like one.”

  She charges.

  No scream. No posturing. Just power.

  Boots tear across the floor, each stride a declaration of war. At the last second, he pivots—tight, trained, maybe even pretty.

  She doesn’t stop.

  Her shoulder slams into the wall, stone cracking under the force. Not clumsy. Planned. She rebounds like a wrecking ball, letting the force twist into a spinning slash.

  The first axe crashes down—straight, merciless.

  He blocks it. Just barely. The jolt knocks through him, through the blade, through his stance. She feels it shake him.

  Then the second axe whips wide. Not clean. Not surgical.

  Primal.

  Meant to control. To own.

  He dodges—but not far enough.

  A thin red line opens across his cheek. Sharp. Intentional. A mark.

  “Slippery bastard,” she mutters. Not insult. Not quite. Closer to admiration.

  They clash again.

  Steel screams. Flesh collides. Her axes spiral, relentless. Each swing is a sentence. A challenge. A promise: You won’t outlast me.

  But he does.

  He slides between her strikes. Fluid. Adaptive. His footwork is too good. Body folding like smoke, never still, never stiff.

  And the ruins respond to him.

  He knows them. The broken columns. The cracks in the floor. The narrow choke points and half-fallen archways. He doesn’t move through the terrain—he commands it.

  Every stone listens.

  Roaka narrows her eyes. Something’s wrong.

  Is he guiding her? Herding her?

  Her mind starts to hum. Sharp. Fast. Thinking when she should be fighting.

  That’s not normal. That’s not her.

  The battlefield is supposed to wipe thoughts away. That’s the deal. Rage in. Thought out.

  But here she is.

  Calculating.

  Reacting.

  Worse—enjoying herself.

  Even worse?

  She’s enjoying him.

  Her axes spin down. Her feet adjust. Her lips part—just barely.

  Her eyes don’t leave his.

  Something’s shifting. Not the room.

  Her.

  The swing comes easy—pure reflex. He ducks low. Too low. Then he’s in her space. Fast. Smart.

  She sees the fist a blink too late.

  It crashes into her jaw like a damn freight hammer. No warning. No windup. Just blunt, raw weight.

  White lights explode behind her eyes. Not just pain—power. Like he forgot who she was. Like she hadn't put better men in the dirt and made them thank her for it.

  And that?

  That thrills her.

  Not just the punch. Not just the fight.

  Him.

  The way he moves. The way he reads her like a map and folds her up without ever needing to speak. He doesn’t fight to prove anything. He fights because it’s in him. And now—it’s under her skin.

  This isn't love. Not lust, either. It’s something worse. Something older. A hunger that predates language.

  Her vision frays at the edges. Heat pools behind her ribs—slow and syrup-thick. Her body knows this game. It lives for it.

  She draws in the feeling like breath before war.

  The world narrows to him.

  Breath turns heavy. Time pulls tight like a noose.

  Then—snap.

  She moves. No warning. No flair.

  She rises in a coiled roll, body sharp, tension drawn tight from instinct deeper than thought.

  And then she charges.

  Forehead to skull. A crunch that sings in her teeth. No pause. No admiration. She’s already halfway into the next move.

  He blocks with that weapon—doesn’t matter.

  She kicks his thigh. Twists her hips. Lies with her whole spine.

  One axe buries deep into the weapon’s stock—splinters fly. Snap. Her growl swallows the sound.

  Then—her knee. Drives it home. Hard. Deep.

  His weapon hits the floor.

  She tastes it—victory—like iron on her tongue.

  Roaka grins wide, panting, eyes wild.

  “Got you now, cutie.”

  And then he reminds her:

  He slips.

  Like fog through fingers. Like dream-stuff.

  His hands close around her wrist—twist.

  Pop. Lightning screams up her arm. Her fingers go slack. The axe drops.

  She swings the other one fast—low, tight angle. He blocks with his forearm. Takes it like it's nothing.

  And steps in.

  Close.

  A low kick snaps behind her knee—her leg folds. She starts to fall, but he’s already spinning, already sweeping her legs.

  Her world tilts. Stone rushes up.

  And then his fist finds her gut.

  Not a bar-brawl punch. Not a heat-of-the-moment swing.

  This one’s clean. Cold. Intentional.

  The hit folds her. Collapses her chest. Air flees her lungs in a single, broken wheeze.

  She blinks, once—twice—choking down the void clawing up her spine.

  He's standing over her now.

  Tall. Still. Eyes like distant sky. Not cold. Not warm. Just elsewhere.

  Did… I lose?

  No answer. Just pain in her ribs and the ugly taste of shame.

  Why?

  How?

  She doesn’t know.

  But he does. She can see it in his eyes.

  The world slides sideways. Her body wants to fall. Her mind wants to quit.

  But one thought—feral, wet, and real—claws its way to the surface and digs in deep.