Page 32 of The Orc's Captive Bride
“I…” She cleared her throat, and forced herself to meet those empty eyes. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“Do I?” He glided into the room with movements too smooth to be natural. Khorrek followed him, taking up position behind his right shoulder like a living shadow. “How terribly rude of me. I am Lasseran, High King of the Five Kingdoms. And you, doctor, are the answer to a rather vexing linguistic problem.”
The door clicked shut behind them. Locked. Her hands clenched in the fabric of the elegant gown that had been left for her.
She was trapped.
“I don’t understand.” In a small victory, her voice came out sounding remarkably composed. “How do you know who I am and what I do?”
“Magic, of course.” He said it as if it were obvious, like he was explaining basic arithmetic to a slow child. “Your world and mine exist in parallel, separated by a veil that grows thinner in certain places. You have been watched for some time now. Your work on lost languages…” That terrible smile widened. “Quite impressive, for a human scholar.”
Watched.The word sent ice down her spine.
“What do you want?”
“Direct. How refreshing.” Lasseran moved to the window, gazing out over the city below. “I’ll be equally direct, then. You are here to perform a task. A translation, to be precise. Nothing more complicated than the work you’ve been doing your entire adult life.”
A translation. She latched onto the familiar concept, using it as an anchor against the surreal horror of the situation.
“A translation of what?”
“An ancient text written in a script that has proven… resistant to conventional decryption.” He turned back to her, and the emptiness in his eyes seemed to deepen. “It concerns the origin of what we call the Beast Curse. A rather unfortunate magical affliction that plagues the orc race.”
The Beast Curse. She suddenly remembered Khorrek’s reaction when that soldier had grabbed her by the stream. Not just the violence, but the way he had seemed to grow larger, and his eyes had turned black.
“You want me to translate a text about the Beast Curse,” she said slowly. “Why?”
“Because knowledge is power, Dr. Monroe, and I have plans that require a thorough understanding of this particular curse’s mechanics.” The cold smile never wavered. “You will decode the text and provide me with a complete, accurate translation. And in return, you will be well cared for during your time here.”
“And if I refuse?”
Lasseran didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just looked at her with those terrible, empty eyes, but the threat was more eloquent than words.
“I see,” she managed.
“I knew you were intelligent.” He moved closer, and she had to force herself not to step back. “The fact that you understand the parameters of our arrangement will make this so much easier for both of us.”
“I don’t…” She pushed her glasses up her nose. “I don’t know if I can do what you’re asking. I have only just begun to understand your language and without context, without even knowing what language family this script belongs to?—”
“Oh, but you do have context.” Lasseran’s voice took on an edge that made her skin prickle. “The orcs, you see, are a savage race, brutal and violent. They are barely more than beasts themselves, cursed by their ancestors through magic they didn’t understand.” He spoke casually, conversationally, as if describing the weather. “Their written language is correspondingly crude and limited.”
Behind him, Khorrek’s expression flickered. Just for a second, a flash of something that might have been pain before his face went blank again.
Her stomach twisted.
“Present company excepted, of course,” Lasseran added, glancing back at Khorrek with a smile that held all the warmth of a snake examining a mouse. “My orcs are different. They are… trained to be useful.” He returned his attention to Thea. “But their wild brethren in Norhaven? Nothing but animals that walk upright.”
Another flicker across Khorrek’s face. Gone so fast she might have imagined it, but she knew she hadn’t. She’d seen the hurt. The shame.
And something inside her—the part that had always stood up to bullies, that had defended unpopular theories against academic persecution, that couldn’t stand injustice even when it was safer to stay quiet—ignited.
“I’ve spent my career studying so-called ‘savage’ cultures,” she said, her voice sharper than was probably wise. “Vikings, Mongols, indigenous peoples dismissed as primitive by their conquerors. Without exception, I’ve found that what we call savagery is usually just a culture we don’t understand.” She forced herself to meet Lasseran’s eyes. “A written language is never crude or simple. It’s always a reflection of complex thought and a complex society.”
The temperature in the room seemed to have dropped ten degrees even though Lasseran’s smile didn’t change. Something shifted in his posture—a predator recognizing unexpected resistance.
“How… academic of you,” he said softly. “I do hope that sentiment doesn’t interfere with your work. You’re here to translate, Dr. Monroe. Not to philosophize about the noble savage.”
“I’m here because I was dragged through a portal against my will.” The words were out before her better judgment could stop them. “Let’s not pretend this is a collaboration.”
