Chapter 7 SPOIL OF THE ORC KING

“Let me go! Unhand me right now, you filthy brutes!” Princess Milana screamed, her voice echoing off the towering black walls as two massive orc guards dragged her through the enormous double doors of Mardak’s throne hall.

Her coronation gown, once pristine white silk embroidered with silver waves, was now torn at the hems and stained with dirt and dried blood. Only two weeks had passed since her father’s death, the king she had adored with every beat of her heart. She had been moments away from having the crown placed on her head, with her handsome king-consort Desmond at her side, when the orcs struck.

The invasion had come like thunder from a clear sky. Her small island kingdom of Slytherin, peaceful and unprepared for war, never stood a chance. Outnumbered ten to one, her guards fought valiantly, but the palace fell in hours. Her people were shackled and marched away as slaves. And she, the only child and rightful heir, had been ripped from the throne itself, crown still glinting in the high priest’s hands.

Now she was here, hauled before the monster who had taken everything.

The doors boomed shut behind her. The throne hall was a cavern of shadows and torchlight, filled with rows of hulking orc warriors in spiked armor, their tusked faces leering. At the far end, upon a large throne, sat the Orc King.

Milana’s breath caught in her throat.

He rose as she was dragged closer, and the sheer size of him stole what little air she had left. Seven and a half feet tall at least, maybe more, built like a living siege engine. Thick green muscle corded every inch of him, scarred from countless battles, deep gouges across his broad chest, a jagged line over one massive shoulder, marks that only made him look more dangerous. Long black hair fell in intricate warrior braids threaded with bone beads and tiny gold rings, framing a face that was sharp, brutal… and, to her furious shock, handsome. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, amber eyes that burned like molten gold. His tusks were large but clean, curving proudly from a mouth that looked made for snarling commands or wicked smiles.

This was Gorak the Ironbreaker, King of Mardak. Not the deformed, pig-faced horror of children’s tales. No, he was something far worse: magnificent and terrifying all at once.

The guards flung her forward. She stumbled down the steps and landed hard on her knees at his feet, golden hair spilling over her shoulders like sunlight on dark stone.

Gorak looked down at her, arms crossed, head tilted. Silence blanketed the hall.

Milana raised her chin, blue eyes blazing defiance. She was the Sun Jade of Slytherin, skin pale and flawless as sea pearl, lips full and red even after days of captivity, hair a cascading river of pure gold that reached her waist. The most beautiful woman in all the southern kingdoms, poets claimed. And right now, every orc in the room could see the rumors hadn’t lied.

Gorak’s deep, gravel-rough voice rolled out like distant thunder. “Well, fuck me. The little human princess is even prettier than the scouts said. Skin like fresh cream, hair like spun gold. Thought you’d be sniveling and pissing yourself by now.”

Milana spat at his booted feet. “And you’re uglier than the stories, you savage bastard. Release me and my people, coward. You attacked an unprepared kingdom, , that’s no victory, that’s scavenging you coward.”

Laughter rumbled through the hall like an avalanche. Gorak’s amber eyes narrowed, but a slow grin spread across his tusked mouth. He had expected a trembling flower. Instead he got fire.

“Coward?” He stepped down one step, towering over her. “I took your palace in a single morning. Your guards died screaming. And you, wielding that pretty little sword like you meant business.” His tusked mouth curved. “I watched from the ridge. You cut down two of my scouts before they dragged you off the throne. Not bad… for a pampered princess.”

Milana surged to her feet, wrists bound behind her, chest heaving. “Untie me and I’ll show you how well I wield it, you green-skinned filth. I’ll carve those tusks into dice.”

Gorak’s laugh was low and dangerous. In a blur of motion, one massive hand shot out and closed around her slender throat. He lifted her straight off the ground as if she weighed nothing, her feet kicking uselessly in the air. 

The hall went dead silent.

His grip was iron, but he didn’t squeeze, just held her there, face inches from his. She could feel the heat rolling off his scarred chest, smell smoke and leather and something wild.

“Big words from such a delicate neck,” he growled, voice dripping with dark amusement. “I could crush it like a twig, little sun.”

Milana choked, face flushing pink, but her eyes stayed locked on his, blazing. “Then… do it… coward. Or fight me like a real warrior.”

For a long moment he stared, thumb brushing the frantic pulse at her throat. Then his grin widened, sharp and feral.

“Fight you?” He lowered her slowly until her toes touched stone again, but kept his hand loosely around her neck. “Very well, princess. One chance. You beat me in this hall, cut off one of these horns…” he tapped one thick, curved horn with a finger, “ and I free you and every last slave from your shitty little island. Swear it on my blood and my axe.”

Gasps rippled through the assembled orcs. His warlords exchanged stunned glances. No one challenged Gorak and lived.

Milana’s heart thundered, but she didn’t hesitate, lifting her chin higher. “I accept.”

Gorak released her throat and stepped back, rolling his massive shoulders. “Give the princess a blade.”

A grinning orc tossed a huge orcish longsword at her feet, six feet of black iron, heavier than an anchor. Milana strained to lift it, muscles trembling, managing only to drag the tip an inch across the stone.

The hall exploded in crude laughter.

“Look at ’er! Can’t even lift a proper cock—er, sword!”

“Gonna fight with those pretty tits instead?”

“Bet she swings better on her knees!”

Gorak raised one hand, silencing them instantly. “Bring a smaller blade. Human-sized. Let the little sun have a fair shot.”

Another sword was produced, one of her own palace guards’ weapons, slender and silver. Milana gripped it gratefully, rolling her wrist to feel the familiar balance.

The orcs cleared a wide circle. Gorak drew his own monstrous greatsword, the blade nearly as long as she was tall, and took his stance, bare-chested, muscles flexing, utterly relaxed.

“Begin,” he rumbled.

Milana attacked like lightning. Years of secret training with her father’s master-at-arms poured out, footwork swift and precise. She darted low, blade flashing toward his thigh. Gorak parried with casual ease, sparks flying. She spun, slashed high at his sword arm, nicked him, a thin line of dark blood welling across green skin.

The orcs muttered, impressed despite themselves.

Gorak’s eyes gleamed. “Good one.”

Then he moved.

His speed was monstrous. A sweeping blow came down like a falling tree. Milana barely blocked; the impact numbed her arms to the elbows. She danced back, lungs burning, striking again and again, ribs, knee, shoulder, throat. Each time his blade turned hers aside with terrifying control.

Sweat plastered her golden hair to her face and neck, gown clinging to every curve as she fought for her life and her kingdom. Gorak toyed with her at first, but his expression shifted, respect flickering behind the amusement.

Finally, one devastating horizontal sweep knocked her sword from her grip. It spun away across the stone.

Before she could dive for it, his arm snaked around her waist. He lifted her effortlessly and slammed her, gently for him, onto her back on the cold floor. The air whooshed from her lungs. He pinned her with one knee between her thighs, the tip of his greatsword resting lightly at her throat.

The hall roared with approval.

Milana lay gasping beneath him, chest rising and falling fast, staring up into those burning amber eyes only inches away. His braids fell forward, brushing her flushed cheeks.

Gorak leaned close, voice a low growl meant only for her.

“You fight like a demon, little sun. Best I’ve seen from a human. But you didn’t touch my horn.”

He rose in one fluid motion, hauling her up by one arm until she stood trembling but unbroken before him.

Gorak turned to his court, voice booming. “The princess fought well and lost. By right of conquest, she is mine. My spoil of war.”

Then, quieter, so only she heard, his tusked mouth brushed her ear.

“Tonight, little sun, I claim what’s owed.”

Milana met his gaze, fear and fury and something hotter she refused to name flickering in her blue eyes.

The Orc King smiled, tusks glinting, and the fate of the Sun Jade of Slytherin was sealed.