Page 114 of Orc's Redemption

His jaw tightens. He won’t look at me.

“Please,” I say, touching his arm. “I understand, but you know that machine is a worse death and if it does wake the Paluga…”

A heartbeat. Then he nods, stiff and clearly sick with the weight of it.

“We go,” Ryatuv says. “We need distance. Fast.”

We run.

Every step feels like borrowed time. We go to the tunnel that led us here. Overhead the machine’s groaning hum increases as it comes to life. We don’t speak—can’t. Every breath is saved for movement, every heartbeat a countdown.

Z’leni slips through the bars first then pauses, turning and reaching a hand for me. My thighs burn and I’m breathing heavily. Inhaling the disgusting air with every gasp. It’s so foul it makes my eyes burn. My fingers close on his then?—

Footsteps. Hard. Heavy.

Ryatuv skids to a stop, spinning around, lochaber already in his hands. Z’leni steps past me, hissing under his breath.

We’re too late.

Four Maulavi emerge from the shadows, cloaked and armed, their swords gleaming wetly. Worse than their weapons are their eyes—bright with fanatical devotion.

“Well, well,” one rasps, stepping forward. His voice is oily, sarcastically amused. “The Shaman said you were alive, traitor. But we didn’t believe him, until now.”

His gaze slides to me, and it feels like oil on my skin.

“And the prize he’s been hunting. Delivered.”

Ryatuv growls low in his throat, dropping into a fighting stance. Z’leni plants himself in front of me, shielding me with his body.

“No one touches her,” he says.

The Maulavi laughs. “Oh, but someone already did. Isn’t that why you fled, Z’leni? Because you loved her more than your people?”

They move fast. Swords clash and everything erupts in chaos.

Ryatuv and Z’leni meet them with fire and fury. Z’leni fluid and striking from strange angles. Ryatuv brutal and efficient. I try to back away and keep clear. I slip back into the tunnel but the footing is slick.

Suddenly, a hand grabs me. I scream—but too late.

I’m wrenched backwards and slammed into the wall. A blade is pressed to my throat. The Maulavi leans close, his breath stinking of sulfur and blood.

“One move,” he hisses, “and she dies.”

Everything stops.

Ryatuv freezes. Z’leni does too. One of the Maulavi is bleeding out on the ground, another is unconscious, but the remaining two stand firm, one holding me with the dagger to my throat, the other with his weapon ready. Z’leni’s face is a mask of ice.

“Elara,” he says softly. “Don’t move.”

I don’t. The blade is sharp and cold. He applies just enough pressure to break my skin. I feel blood trickling down. My chest heaves.

“Drop your weapons,” the Maulavi behind me snarls,

Ryatuv lowers his lochaber, eyes murderous. Z’leni doesn’t move.

“Do it,” I whisper.

Z’leni’s gaze flicks to mine.

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