[Some weeks prior]
It was around half past eight in the morning on the road near Markarth.
A Nord man was making his way back toward the city from a nearby Orc stronghold, a heavy sack of meat slung over his shoulder. He was a merchant by trade—Hogni Red-Arm, a familiar face to the markets of Markarth—and every other day he made the same trip to resupply his stock. Orcs were not known for dealing kindly with outsiders unless some profit could be found in it, but Hogni's coin was always welcome.
He was trudging up the road, already thinking ahead to his stall, when a hooded Khajiit burst from the brush at the roadside with a knife in hand.
Hogni yelped and stumbled backward so hard he landed squarely on his backside.
The Khajiit said nothing.
He only stared at the merchant with hard, hungry eyes and kept the blade pointed at him as he advanced. Every line in his posture said the same thing clearly enough:
Move, and I'll open your belly.
"Please," Hogni blurted, throwing up both hands. "I haven't much. I'm only a meat peddler."
The Khajiit paused, weighing his options.
Then his stomach growled.
The sound was loud enough to carry in the morning quiet, and the thief's eyes dropped at once to the sack on Hogni's shoulder. His lips parted slightly at the thought of fresh meat.
Hogni noticed.
"Here," he said quickly. "Take it. Just... please let me go."
The Khajiit snatched the sack at once, clutching it tightly to his chest while keeping the dagger trained on Hogni for another second. Then, satisfied he had what he wanted, he backed away and bolted down the road.
He did not make it far.
A second figure stood farther along the path, hooded and still, wrapped in a long black cloak that opened along one side to reveal his weapon arm. He watched the Khajiit sprint toward him, then flicked his gaze past the thief to the Nord merchant sitting helpless in the road.
He seemed to decide something.
Turning back to the fleeing Khajiit, he raised one hand.
A bluish-purple aura flared around his fingers.
In the next instant, a glowing glyph of the same color appeared on the road directly in the thief's path.
The Khajiit stepped on it at full speed.
Lightning exploded upward.
The thief cried out and dropped instantly, body locking up before he crashed face-first into the dirt. The sack of meat tumbled from his arms and skidded off to one side.
Hogni sat frozen, stunned beyond all reason, as the cloaked stranger walked calmly forward, picked up the fallen sack, and made his way back toward him.
When he reached the merchant, he set the meat down neatly in front of him and then pulled back his hood.
"I believe this belongs to you," he said, "if I'm not mistaken."
The man was an Altmer.
Or rather, he had once clearly been a man of striking refinement. Now he looked like someone who had seen far better days. Scruff shadowed his face. His long pale hair hung uncombed in uneven locks that fell all the way to his abdomen. He carried himself with the remnants of old nobility, but his appearance was weathered, frayed, and rough. He also seemed to be missing an arm.
Hogni blinked at him several times before finding his voice.
"Th-thanks," he said. "I don't know what I would've done without my stock." He shifted awkwardly on the ground. "If you don't mind me asking... what made you stop that fellow for me? I've no coin to offer, I'm afraid."
"It is no trouble at all," the Altmer replied. "I do so detest thieves."
Hogni let out a shaky breath and pushed himself upright a little. "Well, I suppose today's my lucky day, then." He thumped a fist lightly to his chest. "Red-Arm. Hogni Red-Arm, at your service. I run a meat stand in the Markarth market. If you're ever in town, stop by and I'll give you a proper deal. Least I can do, honestly."
The Altmer inclined his head. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Red-Arm. I go by the name Tharun Aedus." He extended a hand to help the merchant up. "Might I trouble you for a bit of information about this area?"
Hogni accepted the help and got back to his feet with a grunt. Once upright, he hoisted the sack back onto his shoulder and dusted himself off.
"Sure thing," he said. "If it's within my knowledge, anyway. Go on."
"Splendid." Tharun gave him a faint, almost charming smile. "I can see you are a busy man, so I won't keep you long. I am in need of a mercenary." His tone shifted ever so slightly, careful and deliberate. "Preferably a talented one. I have a job that would require a truly fearsome warrior."
Hogni scratched at his head. "I see." He winced apologetically. "Sorry, but I don't really know any mercs."
"Is that so?" Tharun said. "Well, I thank you all the same for your time. Good day to you."
He replaced his hood and began to continue on down the road.
Then Hogni suddenly snapped his fingers.
"Ah—wait a second! I might be able to help you after all."
Tharun stopped and turned back.
"As I said," Hogni went on, "I don't know any mercenaries myself. But I do know a place full of fearsome warriors." He adjusted the sack on his shoulder. "I've got business with the nearby Orc stronghold, see. That's where I get my stock. Freshest cuts in all the Reach, I'll tell you that."
That got Tharun's attention.
He started back toward Hogni, interest clearly sharpened now.
"Anyway," Hogni said, warming to the subject, "most of the Orcs there are hardened warriors. Some of the best fighters I've ever laid eyes on, if I'm being honest."
"You don't say," Tharun murmured.
There was something different in his voice now—subtle, but real.
"And where," he asked, "might I find this stronghold?"
"It's only a short way southeast of here," Red-Arm said, adjusting the sack on his shoulder, "but they're not just going to let you stroll in unless you're an Orc." He gave Tharun an apologetic look. "Still... don't worry. I'll see if I can't get you a word with the chieftain. It's a long shot, but if luck's with you, he might be willing to hear you out."
"Excellent," Tharun said smoothly. "Lead the way."
Some time later, the two arrived at Dushnikh Yal.
The Orc stronghold sat like a stubborn wound cut into the land—fortified, self-contained, and built to keep the world out. Thick wooden logs formed a high palisade around the compound, with lookout posts rising on either side of the main gate. It was less a village than a holdfast, hard and practical and unwelcoming by design.
An Orc guard stood atop the gate, watching their approach.
"Halt!" she barked. Her eyes narrowed as she recognized one of them. "Red-Arm? What brings you back so soon? And who's the stranger?"
Red-Arm lifted a placating hand. "Well, it's a bit of a long story, you see, but this gentleman helped me out in a big way this morning, and I was hoping to return the favor."
The guard squinted down at Tharun, then grunted in open disapproval.
"Sorry, Red-Arm, but you know that's not happening." She folded her arms over the gate railing. "We like you. More importantly, we like your coin. But you know how we feel about outsiders. If he's not blood-kin, he doesn't get in." She pointed down at them. "Simple. And it rhymes. Understand now?"
Red-Arm winced.
He had expected resistance. Orcs were not known for bending their rules, and certainly not their traditions, but he had hoped gratitude might count for something. Clearly, it did not.
Tharun, however, did not look especially discouraged.
If anything, he looked thoughtful.
Because he knew something fundamental about Orcs—something nearly universal among them.
Never give an Orc a real opportunity to prove their strength.
They would seize it every time.
Even the weakest among them would. Strength was not merely prized in Orcish culture—it was purpose. It was the axis around which most of them lived and died.
As Red-Arm began to turn away, Tharun stepped closer to the gate.
The guard immediately unsheathed her blade.
"Didn't you hear me, elf?"
Tharun stopped, hands open, posture easy.
"Forgive me," he said, "but I was told this is where one finds the finest warriors in all the Reach. Red-Arm here has informed me that the skill displayed by your people is truly exceptional." He tipped his head just slightly. "Is this not so?"
The guard stared at him for a second.
Then another.
The question had annoyed her, but not in the way a challenge from a fool might. No, this was worse. It had forced a choice upon her.
Either deny the claim—
or prove it.
At last she sheathed her blade and gave both men another long, measuring look.
"Wait here," she said. "I'll be back. Try anything funny and it's your funeral."
Then she vanished behind the gate.
Red-Arm turned to Tharun in surprise. The Altmer seemed almost smugly satisfied with himself, as though the outcome had gone precisely as he intended. Red-Arm was impressed despite himself. Tharun had flipped the whole exchange with just a few words—and had even leaned on Red-Arm's own "best in all the Reach" line to do it.
The man clearly knew how to get what he wanted.
They stood waiting at the gate for a time before voices and movement stirred on the other side. Then the doors finally opened, revealing two guards positioned on either side.
"All right, elf," the first guard said. "You've got fifteen minutes with the chief. This had better be good."
Tharun stepped forward, but then noticed Red-Arm had not moved.
He glanced back.
Red-Arm shifted the sack on his shoulder and gave an awkward shrug. "Well, I got you the audience. But I've got to get back to town and set up my stand for the day. I'm already behind schedule as it is." He smiled faintly. "Thanks again for the help earlier."
"Say no more of it," Tharun replied. "The favor has most certainly been repaid. It was a pleasure, Mister Red-Arm."
With that, he crossed the threshold into Dushnikh Yal as the guards began closing the gates behind him. One of them glanced back toward Red-Arm and smirked.
"See you around, Red-Arm. Hope your friend here doesn't get himself killed."
She chuckled as the gate shut with a heavy thud.
Inside, Tharun took in the rare sight with quiet interest.
Few men or mer ever saw the inside of a true Orc stronghold.
Even Red-Arm, for all his business with them, had never been invited past the walls.
The settlement within was small but alive with purpose. Orcs moved through their daily labors with the efficiency of people who knew exactly what was expected of them. Some worked the forge. Others tended gardens, carried supplies, sharpened tools, or watched children at play. It was not large, but it was self-sustaining—a compact, disciplined world unto itself.
At the very back of the compound stood the longhouse.
It was broad and imposing, with a curved triangular shape that made it look almost like a beast crouched at the center of the stronghold. Out front, beneath a shaded shelter, sat the chieftain beside one of his wives.
The guards led Tharun toward them.
As he walked, he kept his expression composed, though his eyes missed little.
When they reached the front of the longhouse, one of the escorts stepped forward.
"This is him, Chief Burguk," the guard said. "The one who wishes to see our strength."
Chief Burguk was a fearsome figure.
His skin was a deep greenish-brown, and much of his face was covered in bold orange war paint. Heavy tusks protruded from his lower jaw, adding to an already formidable presence. He sat like a man entirely at home in command, with one of his wives, Shel, at his side while the rest of his household carried on their tasks nearby.
He leaned forward in his chair and looked Tharun over.
"So this is him, then." Burguk's voice was thick with skepticism. "Tell me, elf, what's this all about? There are easier—and less violent—ways to get yourself killed, you know."
"I am well aware, good sir," Tharun said, inclining his head with polished respect. "But I come on a matter of utmost importance. I have a task—one that requires the strength of a truly skilled warrior." His eyes lifted to meet Burguk's. "Only the finest will do."
Burguk grunted. "I'm listening."
Tharun cleared his throat.
"You cannot tell by looking at me, perhaps, but I was once a member of the Thalmor." He let the words settle. "Some time ago, I was tasked with capturing a criminal. A notorious one." His expression darkened with carefully measured bitterness. "I succeeded in taking him. But I failed to deliver him back to my superiors. We were ambushed. In the chaos, he escaped."
Tharun lifted his left side slightly, drawing attention to what was missing.
"That failure cost me my rank... my position..." He extended what remained of his arm. "And, as you can see, one of my limbs."
Burguk's gaze dropped briefly, then rose again.
"So," the chieftain said, "you want to hire a warrior to hunt him down for you." His lip curled faintly. "Where's the glory in that?"
Tharun's expression thinned. "It has been a humbling turn of events, I admit. But this is not about glory."
"Oh, really?" Burguk said. "Then what else is there?"
Tharun paused.
He could tell Chief Burguk's attention was already beginning to wander, the chieftain's interest thinning with every word that did not promise coin, blood, or spectacle.
So he adjusted.
"For me," Tharun said, "this is about duty."
That at least earned him a more direct look.
"I have fallen from grace because I failed to bring in a criminal who threatens innocent lives. Were I still whole, I would gladly confront him myself." He lifted his missing arm slightly. "But as I said before, I am down a limb. I would not best him in a fight, not now." His voice tightened just enough to sound sincere. "And yet it remains my responsibility to see him brought to justice. I only wish to put right what I failed to stop."
Chief Burguk gave a faint chuckle.
"I think you should die about it," he said bluntly. "If it matters that much to your honor and all. But hey—that's your burden, not mine. What do I care?"
Tharun did not so much as flinch.
Burguk leaned back in his seat and spread one hand lazily. "You need warriors. We have warriors." His eyes narrowed. "The real question is—what do you have, stranger?"
Without a word, Tharun reached into his cloak and pulled free a heavy purse of coin.
That got Burguk's attention at once.
The chieftain nodded for one of the guards to take it from him. When the purse was placed in Burguk's hand, he weighed it thoughtfully, feeling its heft before passing it off to his wife.
"Now that's more like it," Burguk said. "Honestly, you should have led with that." He pushed himself to his feet. "You're in luck, too. Some of the men are about to put on a little show for us today. Training exhibition." A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Good chance for you to see what you're buying."
He gestured for Tharun to follow.
Behind the longhouse lay the training grounds.
Weapons had been laid out in racks and on the bare earth, while practice dummies and targets stood scattered around the perimeter. Several Orc warriors were already preparing themselves for sparring. At first glance, Tharun found the whole thing mildly underwhelming. He knew what a truly exceptional fighter looked like, and while these Orcs were clearly seasoned and dangerous, none of them yet struck him as extraordinary.
Still, he stood beside Burguk and the chieftain's wife and watched.
"See that one there?" Burguk asked, jerking his chin toward the far side of the yard. "That's my son, Nagrub. Best archer in the hold."
Tharun followed the gesture.
An Orc stood a little apart from the others, loosing arrows into training targets with methodical focus. He seemed detached from the rest of the yard, uninterested in the spectacle building around him. Tharun gave him only a brief glance before turning his attention back to the center of the grounds.
Then the exhibition began.
It was not anything like what Tharun had expected.
Four Orcs surged toward the weapons laid out in the middle of the ring, each scrambling for whatever suited them best. The instant steel met hand, the display turned vicious. Not disciplined. Not ceremonial.
Violent.
Blows landed hard and without hesitation. Fighters crashed into one another with full force, and every exchange looked less like practice and more like a brawl meant to settle grudges in blood. As some combatants fell, others leapt in to replace them, keeping the chaos alive.
Tharun stared in open disbelief.
He turned toward Burguk. "I thought this was meant to be a demonstration of skill. A simple exhibition."
Burguk barked a laugh and took a drink from his mug.
"It is," he said. "If you don't die, it means you're improving." He shrugged. "Simple enough, right?"
Tharun's mouth tightened. "I suppose."
He did not suppose any such thing, but he was wise enough not to press the matter.
His gaze returned to the ring just in time to see one Orc rise above the rest.
He was larger than any of the others by a clear margin, broad as a gate and swinging two one-handed maces with savage force. Every blow he threw sent his opponents staggering. One by one, the others were battered down until only he remained standing.
He threw his head back and roared in triumph, raising both maces overhead.
The defeated warriors dragged themselves from the yard, their pride wounded more deeply than their bodies.
The large Orc turned slowly, glaring out at the gathered onlookers.
"I must say," he called, "the competition gets thinner by the week." He spread his arms wide. "Is there no one among us who can best me?"
No one answered.
The watching Orcs remained silent, their expressions guarded. The brute scanned them with a predator's impatience, searching for someone willing to take the bait.
Then his eyes landed on Nagrub.
The chieftain's son was still at the edge of the grounds, practicing archery as though none of the shouting behind him concerned him at all.
A cruel grin spread across the larger Orc's face.
He had found a target.
Without warning, he hurled one of his maces across the yard.
The weapon smashed into Nagrub's training target and ripped it clean off its stand, sending it crashing to the dirt.
Nagrub turned around slowly, displeasure flickering in his eyes.
The brute spread his arms. "What say you, Nagrub?" he called. "Surely you mean to be chief one day, don't you?" He jabbed a thumb toward Burguk. "Here's your chance to show your father what he'll be up against."
His grin widened.
"Or have you already accepted your place as the lowly hunting apprentice?"
Nagrub was no weakling. That much was obvious even from the way he held himself.
But he clearly had no taste for the roar and chaos of the ring. A quiet field or a forest hunt suited him far better than a crowd and a challenge. Still, like every male born to an Orc stronghold, he carried the natural pull of ambition. The title of chief meant more than power. It meant wives, legacy, authority. In any stronghold, only the chieftain was permitted to take wives. Every other male had only a few paths open to him: celibacy, exile to seek a mate elsewhere, or challenge the chief in single combat.
Most chieftains expected, even welcomed, the day one of their sons tried to kill them.
It was the old Orc way.
Chief Burguk remained silent now, watching.
He wanted to see what his son would do.
The hulking Orc shoved through the crowd and approached Nagrub at a slow, deliberate pace. By the time he stopped, he was towering over the younger Orc, sweat rolling down his jaw, his shadow swallowing Nagrub whole.
Nagrub turned to face him.
He did not look away.
That, at least, he gave him.
But he said nothing.
His bow tightened in his grip for a brief moment as, no doubt, he imagined a dozen places he might plant an arrow in the brute standing over him. Yet he also knew his father was watching. And somewhere behind that, the weight of his mother's wishes remained with him. She had spent years trying to smother this exact instinct in him, terrified that the old traditions would swallow her son the moment he embraced them too openly.
At last Nagrub exhaled and turned away.
"Not worth it."
He stepped over to the next target and resumed his practice as though the matter were closed.
As he reached for another arrow, a hand clamped around his wrist.
The larger Orc had no intention of letting it go.
"You still don't understand, do you?" the brute said, leaning in close. His voice dropped into something uglier. "I'm not letting your lot keep this stronghold in the family any longer." He tightened his grip. "And I'm going to start by beating the chief's son in front of him."
"Oy!"
The voice cracked across the yard sharply enough to make the large Orc turn.
A woman had stepped out from the back door of the longhouse.
She was tall, lean, and powerfully built, with olive-green skin tinted brown beneath the sun and marked by old battle scars she wore with open pride. Her burgundy hair had been worked into a twisting mohawk that funneled into a single long braid trailing all the way down to her calves. She wore little beyond hide wrappings over her chest and waist, stepping barefoot into the yard as if she had every right to own the ground beneath it.
Yaza.
The adopted daughter of Chief Burguk and his third wife, Shel.
Notorious.
Unruly.
Impossible to ignore.
Shel had been unable to bear children when she first married Burguk, but as the chief's favored wife, she had expected to share in all things granted to the first two wives—including children. In Yaza, they had found a solution to more than one longing. Shel got the child she had wanted. Burguk got a second chance at having a daughter after his true daughter, Lash gra-Dushnikh, had fled the stronghold years ago and earned exile for it. Since then, few in the hold spoke her name aloud.
Yaza had been brought into the family at eleven or twelve, and she had repaid that kindness by becoming the most troublesome child Burguk had ever raised.
She was wild where others were disciplined, loud where they were stoic, defiant where tradition demanded obedience. She had gone so far as to openly claim that one day she would kill Burguk in single combat and become the first female chief—an idea so heretical to Orc custom that most preferred to pretend she had only been joking.
She had not.
She was also, unfortunately for anyone who disliked her, one of the best fighters in the stronghold.
Among her peers, she had long since become the most sought-after training partner. Most of the males avoided any true conflict with her if they could, unwilling to risk the humiliation of being bested by a woman. But every now and then, some fool decided his pride was worth testing.
Yaza stepped farther into the sunlight and looked directly at the brute harassing Nagrub.
"Since when," she asked, "did you get so high on the food chain around here?"
The large Orc sneered. "No one's talking to you, princess. This is a man's sport."
Nagrub shot her an irritated look. "Stay out of this, Yaza. I can handle myself."
She ignored him completely.
Walking right up to him, she placed a hand gently against his cheek and smiled as though indulging a child.
"Oh, I'm sure you can, big brother," she said sweetly. Then she shoved his face aside. "But this isn't about you, so shut it." She stepped past him toward the larger Orc, smile never fading. "I've just been itching for a fight, is all."
She stopped inches from the brute's chest, arms folded, grinning up at him with cheerful menace.
"I'm not wasting any energy on you, little girl," he said. "I want to see what kind of bite the pup over there's got. Stay out of the way."
Behind them, Burguk dropped his face into one hand and let out a weary sigh while Shel stood behind him rubbing his shoulders.
He knew exactly where this was going.
The moment little girl had left the man's mouth, any chance of this ending quietly had died.
Tharun, for his part, did not know what to make of any of it. To him, the place already felt one step removed from chaos, and yet no one here seemed truly alarmed. Even the chieftain watched with the mild irritation of a man whose meal had been interrupted, not one whose daughter was about to start a riot.
Yaza let out a small laugh.
"Little girl, he says..."
Then she drove her forehead straight into the brute's mouth.
The crack of it echoed through the yard.
The large Orc staggered backward into the crowd, both hands flying to his face. Blood began pouring through his fingers almost immediately. Judging by the wet, broken look of his expression, she had likely knocked loose a few teeth as well.
"Bitch!" he snarled. "You want to die for your brother that badly, aye?"
Yaza stooped, picked up the mace he had thrown earlier, and tossed it into the dirt at his feet.
"Pick it up."
Then she crossed to the nearby weapon rack and selected two hand axes.
She raised one of them high and turned in a slow circle, addressing not just the brute but all the Orc warriors standing in the yard.
"I don't want to hear any more whispering about taking my father's head," she called. "If you've got something to say, speak up next time." Her grin widened. "Matter of fact—if any of you want to test your strength against someone, try me first. Right here. Right now."
She pointed the axe at the gathered fighters.
"That goes for all you limp-dicks. If you want a shot, pick up a weapon. I'll take that as a challenge."
The yard went very still.
Even stiller than before.
The brute straightened slowly, blood on his mouth, both maces now clenched in his fists. Around him, a few other Orcs—offended by her tone or eager for the chance—also bent to pick up weapons. The rest stepped back, clearing space in a widening circle.
Yaza watched them and smiled like a wolf.
"That's right," she said. "Show me how many faces I get to break today."
They spread out around her in a loose ring, gripping swords, clubs, and axes, each of them watching her with a little more caution than they'd worn a moment ago.
Tharun looked to Burguk. "You're not going to stop them? This fight is clearly stacked against her."
"Nope," Burguk said, and took another drink from his mug.
Then one of the Orcs edged his foot forward.
Leapt.
Chief Burguk lowered the mug again and grunted, "Seems about right."
The first attacker came in hard with a greatsword, swinging twice in quick succession.
Yaza slipped both attacks without effort.
Then she twisted one of her axes in her hand, using the blunt end instead of the blade, and smashed it across his jaw with her whole body behind the blow. The strike landed so cleanly he didn't even seem to understand what had happened. Blood and tusk fragments flew from his mouth as he crashed to the dirt.
The crowd roared.
Two more Orcs charged her at once.
Yaza swung both axes over her shoulders and dropped into a low, swaying crouch that looked more like a boxer's stance than anything from a warrior's drill. At the last second, she launched herself forward in a spinning slide across her knees, gliding beneath the first attack and ending up directly between both men.
In the same motion, she hooked each attacker's leg with an axe.
Then spun again.
Both Orcs were yanked off their feet and hit the dirt hard.
Before either could recover, Yaza moved.
One axe flashed low and struck the first Orc in the mouth with a brutal crack.
Without pausing, she carried that same arm through a full arcing windmill and brought the second axe down across the other Orc's face.
Both went limp at once, blood spilling into the dust.
Tharun stared.
The sheer fluency of her movement was staggering. There was nothing wild or sloppy in it, no matter how feral it might have looked at a glance. Every strike was precise. Every angle calculated. Every burst of motion packed with ugly efficiency.
And worse—or better, depending on one's taste—she was enjoying it.
There was a dark delight in the way she fought, a kind of sinister satisfaction that curled at the edge of every grin and every impact.
Three more came at her.
She disarmed one.
Dropped another with a knee and the haft of an axe.
Cracked the third across the temple so hard he spun halfway around before collapsing.
When the dust finally settled, only the large Orc remained standing.
He was sweating now.
Angry.
And very clearly beginning to understand just how badly he had underestimated her.
"Now that the small fry are out of the way," the large Orc growled, rolling his shoulders as he tightened his grip on both maces, "allow me the chance to put you back in a woman's place."
Yaza straightened fully and spread her arms, one axe extended out to either side of her like a pair of crooked wings.
"How about I put you there first?" she said. "Who knows. Might suit you better."
The brute began advancing on her with slow, deliberate steps.
Yaza suddenly lunged forward with a guttural growl, feinting the start of an attack.
The effect was immediate.
He flinched.
Only for a second—but it was enough.
Yaza barked a laugh and spun one of her axes in her hand. "That's two for flinching, dumbass!"
Then she came at him for real.
She crossed the distance so quickly that by the time he realized she was truly attacking, she was already in his face with one axe drawn all the way back. The first strike hit him, then the second followed in a blur. He stumbled backward, dazed more by the suddenness of it than the damage itself.
A roar tore out of him then, loud enough to rattle the yard.
He came forward swinging both Orcish maces in great brutal arcs, trying to overwhelm her with force.
He never touched her.
Yaza slipped and weaved through every blow with insulting precision. She left him nothing. No opening. No clean angle. Tharun noticed at once that it was not merely speed carrying her through the exchange—it was intent. Every placement of her foot, every pivot of her hips, every shift of her shoulders was setting up the next movement before the last had even finished. She was not just evading him.
She was leading him.
Forcing him into a pattern she controlled.
The larger Orc grew increasingly ragged as the fight wore on. Frustration began eroding whatever composure he'd started with. Each failed strike made the next wilder. Every miss opened him up to another sharp, punishing response from Yaza. A clipped blow here. A battering hit there. The kind of damage that chipped away at a man's nerve faster than his body.
Before long, he was breathing hard.
His swings had slowed.
Drool hung at one corner of his mouth as he struggled to keep his eyes on her. Meanwhile, Yaza bounced lightly from foot to foot, practically glowing with excitement, looking less like she'd been fighting and more like she was deciding what game to play next.
She was about to rush him again when a voice boomed across the yard.
"Yaza!"
She stopped instantly.
The entire stronghold seemed to still with her.
Every Orc in earshot turned quiet, waiting.
Yaza let out a long, irritated huff. "Yes, Pop?"
Chief Burguk sat beneath the shade shelter, unhurried as ever, raising a cigar to his lips while Shel leaned in to light it for him. He took his time drawing from it, then let the smoke roll out in a slow, deliberate stream through both nostrils.
Yaza hated that.
He always took his time when she wanted an answer, especially in front of others. She had long since decided it was some sort of dominance display.
Burguk regarded her through the curling smoke. "Now what did I tell you about that?"
Tharun, for the first time in several minutes, felt a flicker of relief.
At last, he thought, the chief is going to restore some kind of order.
Then Burguk spoke again.
"Stop playing with your food. You'll set a bad example for the young ones."
Tharun blinked.
Yaza exhaled in open resignation.
She loved the thrill of battle, but even by Orc standards there was dishonor in humiliating a clearly inferior opponent for too long. Better to teach the lesson quickly and leave it at that—especially if the matter had become dangerous.
Without argument, she drove both axes down into the dirt so the blades stuck fast and the handles jutted upward at an angle.
Then she walked straight up to the larger Orc—
—and punched him square in the face.
She leaned all the way through the strike.
The impact dropped him like a felled tree. His body slammed into the earth with such force that the ground cracked beneath him. He lay there at the center of a fresh crater, utterly motionless.
The fight was over.
Just like that.
Tharun's jaw might as well have joined the brute on the ground.
He felt almost embarrassed now for having worried on her behalf. In hindsight, Burguk's calm had said everything. The chief had never once looked concerned for Yaza. If anything, he'd seemed more interested in how Nagrub might respond to provocation than in the outcome of this contest.
Yaza stepped over her fallen opponent and gave him no more thought than one would a broken stool. She could have killed him. She chose not to. Better to leave him alive for the chance to put him on his back again another day.
Already bored, she crossed back beneath the shelter and dropped down with her back against one of the supporting pillars.
"You really can't stand seeing me have fun, can you?" she muttered.
Burguk ashed his cigar and chuckled. "Don't be like that, my thorny little rosebud. You're my daughter. Means you've got to be an example to the other warriors. We've talked about this."
"If I may..."
Both Burguk and Yaza turned toward the speaker at the same time.
Tharun stood there, suddenly aware that he had stepped into a family rhythm he did not fully understand. The slight pause in the air made him cautious for the first time in a while. Yaza's face, in particular, shifted into open confusion the moment her eyes settled on him.
"When did we start lettin' these in here?" she asked.
"Relax," Burguk said. "It's just business. Sir Tharun here wants to hire a sword-arm from us, so I'm giving him a look at our stock."
Yaza let out a sharp little laugh. "Oh yeah? Sorry, pal. Most of 'em just got beat to shit." She dug at one ear idly with her pinky nail, grinning like she found the whole thing hilarious. "Wish you'd told me sooner."
Tharun barely registered the joke.
His attention was fixed entirely on her.
Whatever brutality he had just witnessed, there had been something almost artistic in the way she fought. Efficient. Inventive. Cruel in a highly functional way. Not merely strong—but gifted. Exactly the sort of warrior his plan required.
He cleared his throat, smoothing away the awkwardness pressing at the edges of the moment.
"Well," he said carefully, "that is just it, you see. After what I have witnessed here today, I believe it is quite clear to me now... that the one for the job... is you, madam."
Burguk answered before Yaza could even begin to process it.
"Out of the question. My rosebud isn't going anywhere."
Yaza jerked upright. "Seriously? I don't even get a say?"
"It's not up for discussion, sweet pea," Burguk said. "Sorry. I've spoken."
The disbelief hit her first.
Then the rage.
Her eyes widened, her teeth clenched, and she turned at once to her mother as if expecting some kind of support. Shel gave none. Her silence was answer enough.
Yaza rose slowly to her feet and shook her head at both of them.
"I don't get it," Yaza said. "I don't get you."
She stood rigid with anger, staring at her father like she was trying to force an answer out of him by will alone.
"What's all this training for if I'm never allowed to leave? You won't let me become chief. I can't do anything." She jabbed a hand toward the training yard. "I'm literally the best warrior here, and you know it."
"No, I don't," Burguk said. "And no, you're not."
The look he gave her hit like a drawn blade.
Sharp. Cold. Immediate.
Yaza felt it in her chest. It was as if he had truly stood, crossed the space between them, and pressed steel to her throat. In that instant, she knew she had stepped too far. She had challenged not only his judgment, but his strength and his authority in front of the hold.
Most of the Orcs in Dushnikh Yal would have admitted, if pressed, that Yaza got away with more than she ought to.
But this?
This was not something Burguk tolerated from anyone.
Not from the warriors of the hold.
Not from his own brothers, Ghorbash the Iron Hand and Oglub.
And certainly not from her.
He rose slowly from his chair and turned toward the back door of the longhouse, speaking without raising his voice.
"You still look at fighting the way a boy looks at his favorite ball." He paused. "You may be good with a blade, but you are far from a warrior."
Yaza's expression tightened.
"You prove that every time you step onto a battlefield," Burguk went on. "I did not see a warrior out there today." He took a slow pull from his cigar. "I saw a child." His eyes shifted toward her. "A bully."
The words landed harder than any strike.
"Maybe one day," he said, "when we don't have to keep having this same conversation, I'll reconsider." His voice flattened. "But for now, the answer is no."
He turned his head slightly, enough for her to catch the warning in it.
"Drop it," he said, "before I get pissed off."
Then he flicked the cigar out into the training yard.
It landed on the chest of the Orc Yaza had just dropped, where it sizzled against his skin while he lay too dazed to react. Burguk stared at him for a long moment.
"You see, shit-for-brains like him only learn one way," he said. "They have to be taught not to challenge me the hard way. It's the only language they understand."
Then he looked back at Yaza.
"Don't be like him. You're smarter than that."
Without another word, he tossed Tharun's bag of coin back toward him.
Tharun caught it.
The purse landed in his hand with a damp, ugly smack, suddenly feeling heavier than it had before. Not with wealth.
With disappointment.
"Sorry," Burguk said. "Doesn't look like we can help each other right now." He jerked his head toward the front of the hold. "Leave."
And that was that.
Chief Burguk turned and made his way back into the longhouse, Shel following close behind with worry written plainly across her face. Yaza remained where she was, staring at the dirt with her teeth clenched so tightly they might have cracked.
The moment her father was out of sight, something in her snapped.
She surged to her feet as if lifted by her own fury and swung one arm in a vicious arc through one of the support beams holding up the overhead shelter.
The beam split cleanly in two.
Without looking back, Yaza stormed off.
Tharun, meanwhile, was escorted back toward the gate with little ceremony. By the time the doors of the stronghold thudded shut behind him, his thoughts had darkened considerably.
Getting inside an Orc stronghold at all had been difficult enough.
And for all that effort, he had walked away with nothing.
Or so it seemed.
He began making his way toward Markarth, turning over his options. The entire day had been eventful, yet useless in the one way that mattered most. He had gotten no closer to his goal. The sounds of the Reach settled around him as he walked—birds, insects, the dry hush of wind moving through scrub and brush.
Then came a voice behind him, loud enough to tear through all of it.
"Oye! Wait up, would ya?!"
Tharun turned.
An Orc woman was running after him, partly armored, helmet tucked under one arm. As she closed the distance, she pulled the helmet off completely.
Yaza.
Her burgundy braid whipped behind her as she ran, and when she reached him, she looked less angry now than alive with possibility.
She was grinning.
A wicked, eager grin stretched from ear to ear.
The conversation Burguk had hoped to end in the yard did not stay there.
Inside the longhouse, the chief sat in his throne-like seat beneath the dim glow of tusk-shaped candles hanging from a chandelier, while Shel paced before him in mounting agitation. The light threw long shadows across the room, but not enough to hide the storm on her face.
"This is your fault," she said. "You're the one who filled her head with dreams of battle and war. Now all she can think about is leaving." She threw up both hands. "To do what? Kill people? Get herself killed?"
Burguk sat through it, brooding.
"Honey," he said at last, "you have to see that this may be for the best."
Shel stared at him in disbelief.
"It was inevitable," he continued. "From the first time she ever picked up a blade." He rubbed a hand across his jaw. "What happened between me and my first daughter always left me wondering—did I fail her as a father, or were we simply made too different?" His voice softened, though only slightly. "But this is different. This could be good for Yaza."
Shel folded her arms tightly across herself. "But what will everyone else think—"
A knock at the door cut her off.
Burguk rose at once, not bothering to hide his relief at the interruption, and crossed to answer it.
Nagrub stood outside.
He looked tense. Urgent.
"What's the matter, kiddo?" Burguk asked.
"It's Yaza. She's—"
"Gone," Burguk said. "I know."
Nagrub blinked. "And you're all right with that?"
Burguk did not answer.
He knew what the silence meant to his son. Nagrub had always been loyal, steady, dutiful in all the ways Yaza was not, and allowing her to run off felt like a betrayal of that loyalty whether Burguk intended it or not. He also knew—perhaps better than Nagrub realized—that his son carried his own quiet hunger to see the world beyond the hold, to step out from under his father's shadow and become something on his own.
Nagrub read the silence for what it was.
Complicity.
"So that's it?" he asked, anger sharpening his voice. "Once again Yaza gets to do whatever the hell she wants, and the rest of us are just supposed to eat shit?"
Still Burguk did not answer.
He turned away from both Nagrub and Shel and disappeared into his bedchamber without another word.
The two left behind stood there in shared frustration.
Shel sank into a seat, worry gnawing at her face. Nagrub remained standing, fists clenched hard at his sides.
Burguk's silence was unlike him.
And they both knew it.
Outside the stronghold, Tharun had just reached the road when Yaza caught up to him.
He had been deep in thought, already trying to decide where to look next, when she came tearing through the quiet of the Reach like a thrown spear.
Now she stood in front of him, breathing hard but smiling like this was the most amusing thing to happen to her in weeks.
The look on her face said one thing clearly.
She had made up her mind.
"Gods, you move fast," Yaza said, slowing to a stop in front of him. "Thought I wasn't gonna catch you in time."
For a moment, Tharun said nothing.
He was too busy trying to reconcile the sight of her actually standing there with the fact that Chief Burguk had forbidden this very thing only moments ago. The question that mattered most rose to the front of his mind at once.
What of her father?
Yaza folded her arms and cocked her head. "Well? You gonna tell me who the mark is or what?"
Tharun blinked once, then gathered himself. "Your father explicitly forbade you from joining me, did he not?"
"I didn't chase you all the way out here to talk about mi' pops," Yaza said. "I'm gonna be bigger than that old green ballsack anyway." She lifted her chin. "So let's hear it. This job of yours."
Tharun glanced around the road and the hills beyond it before lowering his voice.
"It would be wiser not to discuss such matters out in the open." He turned slightly, beginning to walk again, then paused just long enough to look back at her. "And... you are certain this won't spiral into some family crisis?"
Yaza snorted. "I'm not going back, if that's what you're yankin' at."
"Right," Tharun said. "Well then."
He reached into his cloak and tossed her the heavy purse of coin Burguk had returned to him.
"I suppose this belongs to you." His tone smoothed out again, all business. "Consider it a down payment for the task ahead. You'll receive the rest—and considerably more—once you deliver the target to me." He extended one hand, not to shake, but in a courteous gesture for her to lead the way. "Shall we?"
Yaza caught the coin purse and stared at it.
For a moment, she forgot even to move.
She had never had money of her own before. Not truly. Not something she could spend as she pleased, use as she pleased, carry because it belonged to her. The weight of it in her hand felt like something more than coin.
It felt like freedom.
A slow grin pulled across her face. Then she started forward, walking past Tharun with fresh excitement in every step. She looked almost electric with the thrill of what was to come.
Behind her, Tharun followed with a darker smile of his own.
At last, the day no longer felt wasted.
With a warrior like Yaza at his side, he now had a real chance. A dangerous chance. Perhaps even the chance to reclaim what he had lost—his station, his standing, his life as it had once been.
With Yaza in his employ, Eradros was as good as captured.
Back at Dushnikh Yal, Chief Burguk finally emerged from his chambers.
This time he carried something in his hands.
It was an Orcish bow, old but powerful, wrapped in decorative leather and clearly cared for. Without ceremony, he tossed it across the room toward Nagrub, who barely caught it before it slipped from his grasp.
Nagrub looked down at it, then back up at his father.
"This is..." He frowned. "The bow you won from Uncle."
Burguk grunted. "I told your mother to give it to you the day you finally beat me in combat." He folded his arms. "But I think it'll do more good now."
Nagrub stared at him, trying to understand.
His first thought was that this might be some strange attempt at apology—but that did not fit Burguk at all. The chief cared for his children, yes, but he was not the kind of man to buy back affection or soothe over conflict with gifts.
"I don't understand," Nagrub admitted.
"You're going after her," Burguk said. "And you'll need a better bow than that old thing if you mean to keep up."
Nagrub blinked. "You want me... to drag her back here?" He let out a short, humorless breath. "This is Yaza we're talking about. She'd kill me for even suggesting it."
"Not bring her back," Burguk said. "Keep her safe."
That landed differently.
Nagrub's expression shifted.
"She's tough," Burguk went on. "Might even be tougher than your old man in some ways. But bright? Not nearly bright enough. And that Altmer..." He scratched at his beard. "Tharun. That was his name, yeah?" His eyes narrowed. "He's exactly the kind of slippery bastard who'd take advantage of a klutz like Yaza."
Nagrub looked down at the bow again. "But... who's going to hunt for the stronghold if I'm gone?"
Burguk threw up one hand in frustration. "For the love of..." He took a breath and steadied himself. "Look. You want out of here too, don't you?"
Nagrub said nothing.
Because the answer was yes.
Burguk saw it anyway.
"You're a good son," he said. "Strong. Thoughtful. Loyal." Then a crooked little smile tugged at one side of his mouth. "But you're not some battle-crazed meathead like the rest of us."
He nodded toward the bow.
"So here's your chance, kiddo."
Nagrub looked up sharply. "She won't be happy about me tagging along. She might flat out refuse."
Burguk was already settling into his throne again, lighting another cigar with slow, practiced ease.
"She doesn't get a say."
He drew in smoke and exhaled through his nose.
"She'll try to avoid you if she knows you're there, so don't let her know. You're the best hunter in the hold. I'm sure you can manage a little stealth tracking."
Then he turned his head toward Shel.
"Well?" he asked dryly. "Everybody happy now?"
Shel's worry softened almost at once into relief.
She still did not like the idea of Yaza being gone, not truly, but knowing Nagrub would be out there watching over her eased the worst of it. If anyone could keep pace with Yaza without being seen, it was him.
Nagrub, meanwhile, stood very still.
He had never seen this side of his father so clearly before—this quiet, practical understanding hidden beneath all the bluster and iron. It struck him that he ought to leave quickly, before Burguk changed his mind out of pride or temper.
He tightened his grip on the bow.
It felt good in his hands.
Solid.
Like permission.
He turned to leave the longhouse.
Then Burguk's voice stopped him.
"Oh—and son..."
Nagrub looked back.
"Don't let me down."
Chapter End—