Gor'ka's eyes snapped open. Damp earth beneath her cheek, the copper tang of blood on her tongue. For a long second, she just lay there, breathing shallowly, counting the broken pieces inside her. Her ribs ached. Her left shoulder throbbed—likely dislocated—sending sharp jolts down her arm. Her leg pulsed with the deep, spreading agony of a bruise that felt more like a curse than an injury. But she was alive—and for a heartbeat, that simple fact stunned her. She had expected silence, the end. Yet breath filled her lungs, raw and burning, and with it came the taste of something like defiance.
She blinked slowly, orienting herself. The sky above was fractured by tree branches and faint moonlight. Not the cave. Not safety. She was outside—on the forest floor. A sharp gust of air made her flinch, and pain surged through her side. Her hand instinctively touched the raw edge of a reopened wound. Her mind raced to put together what had happened. The fall. The fight. The beast.
Groaning, she pushed herself upright. A few feet away lay the Ironhide's corpse—massive, twisted, its armor shattered and blackened. Smoke still curled faintly from its wounds. The beast was unmistakably dead. Its death should've brought her satisfaction. Instead, she felt lost. The battlefield had ended, but the war within her still raged.
She looked down at her empty hands. Where was her blade?
Her fingers searched the muddy grass around her. Dirt. Twigs. Then—a hilt. Her dagger. Cold, wet, familiar. Her grip tightened around it like a lifeline.
She stood, legs trembling beneath her, and looked around. Her body screamed retreat, but her will stood firm—she had not survived to crawl back into weakness. The clearing was silent now—eerily so. As if the violence had torn a hole in the world that nothing dared fill—a silence so deep it seemed even the wind held its breath. She scanned the trees, the rocks, the shadows.
And then she remembered him.
The half-elf.
Her breath caught. That monster… he had nearly bested her. A half-elf. The shame bit deep, but there was more than shame. There was awe. He had moved like a storm, fought like an animal—but with a mind sharp as obsidian, dangerous not just in strength but in insight, as if he could see the shape of her thoughts before she made them real. He hadn't just overpowered her—he had read her. She remembered the moment their blades locked, how his gaze met hers with eerie calm. As if he knew exactly when she would feint, when she would falter. Like he had fought her before, in another life—or another mind. Matched her. Nearly broken her.
She spat blood to the side and shook her head, a bitter grin tugging at her lips.
"Gor'ka, daughter of Kraugh... almost bested by a half-elf. What would the elders say? What would my mother say?"
What if he truly is the one? The warrior who could take me? How ironic—he's not even orc.
She let her gaze travel across the carnage again. Then she saw it—a dark break in the earth, half-concealed beneath tangled roots. A cave mouth, low and shadowed.
A memory stirred. The fall. The cliff. His body tumbling beside hers.
He's in there.
She limped toward the entrance, blade drawn, every muscle tense. The opening yawned like a wound in the earth, breathing cold and still.
The air changed. Damp, silent. It smelled of moss, iron—and blood. Her boots scraped against smooth stone. Her dagger pulsed in her grip. Every nerve screamed caution, yet her feet carried her forward.
There—near the rear wall.
Leopold.
He lay half-shadowed, encrusted with blood and grime. But breathing. His chest rose and fell in a slow, shallow rhythm. Not dead.
She stopped.
Stared.
Her silhouette loomed like a hunter over fallen prey. Her eyes narrowed. Muscles tensed.
End it.
It would be easy. One thrust. Her blade knew the path.
But she hesitated.
His face was softer now. No rage, no twisted sneer. Just pain. Confusion. His body—torn, broken, vulnerable. He had fought like a monster. But here, he looked more lost than beast.
She tightened her grip.
He was the first to truly defeat her.
Should I let him live? she wondered. Or kill him while I still can? The old voices of her people echoed in her mind: The strong survive. The weak kneel—or die.
Her dagger hovered.
She leaned over him. Looked into that face—those lashes, stained with dirt. That mouth, slightly parted in sleep. There was something wrong about him. Off. Different than before. Like he was... someone else.
She stared longer than she should have. His features were too still, too open—like a puzzle missing half its pieces. Her instincts screamed one thing. Her heart whispered another.
She growled softly. "What are you, half-elf?"
Then his eyes opened.
Violet. Wild. Not fully aware. Not Leopold—and yet not a stranger.
She moved to strike—
—but he grabbed her wrist.
Too fast.
She gasped. He pulled. She fell.
They hit the ground hard. Her dagger clattered away. She struck him. He grunted. They rolled. Fought. Limbs locked. She elbowed his ribs. He growled. Pinned her beneath him.
His weight pressed into her, not yet pain, but a threat of it—his arm a band of heat against her throat. The cold stone beneath her spine bit like judgment. Her breath caught, her senses flooded with sweat, blood, breath, closeness. This wasn't the half-elf from before—this was something changed. Feral. And yet human.. She kicked. Fought. Clawed. He held.
And then—
His body faltered.
A tremor ran through him. He collapsed forward, gasping. Blood spilled from his side—fresh and hot.
He slumped atop her.
Dead weight. Warm. Real.
She froze.
Her fingers brushed the stone, inches from the lost dagger.
But she didn't move.
He lay on her chest, breathing shallowly.
And in the dim glow of the cave, a tremor of recognition shifted in her—an unnamed yearning that felt both alien and inevitable.
Not fear.
Something else.
She looked at his face.
Her pulse slowed. A strange quiet settled inside her—a silence that didn't come from the cave, but from the shattering of something old within.
And whispered:
"That wasn't the same man."
And she didn't know whether that terrified her—or gave her hope.