10. Jurto

10

JURTO

" T he win is awarded to the Bloodcrushers!" The scrawny orc who would never last an hour on the field shouts as he thrusts the massive trophy toward me. It's dented – likely from too many orc parties it's been shoved around – and scratched, but that only fills me with more pride to be able to rip it from his hands and hold it high. It's hard fought and hard won for the trophy alone.

Screams erupt from the crowd and my teammates – well, the conscious ones at least – and I grin widely as I thrust the trophy higher. But that's nothing compared to the frenzy that starts to shift through the crowd as spoils are pulled out.

I can't help but smirk at the dark elves as they drag out all that they betted. Next comes the spoils—chests of gold, piles of roasted meats, and finely crafted weapons and armor. My team tears into our bounty with victorious abandon. The scent of roasted meats fills the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and sweat.

I watch as the dark elves grudgingly drag out their bets, their faces twisted with resentment. They thought they could best us. Fools. I revel in their defeat.

"Check this out!" Rogar exclaims, prying open a chest brimming with gold coins. He lets out a victorious roar, tossing a handful into the air. The coins glitter in the sunlight, raining down like golden confetti.

"Save some for the rest of us, you greedy bastard!" Krodash laughs, giving Rogar a hearty shove.

I can't help but chuckle at their antics. This camaraderie, this unrestrained joy, is what makes the brutality of zyrphix worthwhile. I survey the spoils: intricately crafted weapons and armor, each piece a testament to its maker's skill. These are not mere trinkets; they are symbols of our dominance.

"Look at this blade!" Varg shouts, holding up a dark elf sword with a wickedly curved edge. "This'll slice through anything!"

"Better not cut yourself on it, Varg," I tease. "Wouldn't want you out of the next match."

He grins, his tusks glinting. "Not a chance, captain."

As the team feasts on the roasted meats, I feel a sense of satisfaction wash over me. This victory, these spoils, they're tangible proof of our strength and skill. I grab a hunk of meat, tearing into it with relish. The flavor explodes in my mouth, rich and savory.

Then the human slave girl, Emilia, is led trembling onto the field. She's petite, nearly two feet shorter than me, with fair skin dotted with freckles that stand out against the flush of her rosy cheeks. Her long wavy auburn hair cascades down her back, catching the light in fiery hues.

Large green eyes, wide with apprehension, peer out from a heart-shaped face. Her button nose and soft smile give her an almost ethereal innocence. Delicate hands clutch nervously at the fabric of her simple dress, and her slender build seems fragile amidst the chaos of the arena.

When I first heard a human was part of the prize, I scoffed at the thought. What use is a human in a world of orcs and dark elves, where strength and brutality reign supreme? But now, seeing her up close, something stirs within me. An unexpected protectiveness, a curiosity.

"Bring her here," I command, my voice gruff and authoritative. The dark elves leading her hesitate for a moment, then comply, pushing her gently but firmly in my direction.

Just as they begin to move, Aleryn, the dark elf captain, steps forward, his face twisted with rage. "No! She belongs to us! You've taken enough!" He spits the words out, his eyes blazing with anger and humiliation.

I turn to face him, my own anger rising. "You lost, Aleryn. The spoils are ours by right." My voice is low, dangerous. The crowd around us falls silent, sensing the imminent confrontation.

Aleryn draws his sword, the blade glinting menacingly in the sunlight. "You have enough! You aren't taking her, too," he snarls, lunging at me with swift, deadly precision.

I dodge his strike, my reflexes sharp from years of combat. I lunge at him, tackling him to the ground. The crowd roars as I pummel him with my fists, each blow landing with a wet, crunching sound. Blood splatters across my knuckles and his face, and he struggles beneath me, trying to fend off my attacks.

With a savage growl, I grab him by the collar and slam his head into the ground. Blood streams from his nose and mouth, but I don't stop. I want him to remember this, to know without a doubt that he's been bested.

He manages to land a punch to my jaw, but it only fuels my rage. I grab his arm and twist, feeling the satisfying snap of bone. He screams in agony, but the sound is drowned out by the cheers of the crowd.

Finally, I stand, leaving Aleryn a broken, bloody mess on the ground. He clutches his side and his shattered arm, his face a mask of pain and defeat. I stand over him, my chest heaving with exertion, my eyes dark with triumph. "The spoils are ours," I repeat, my voice carrying over the din. "All of them."

Aleryn glares up at me, his defeat bitter. He knows he cannot challenge me further. With a pained nod, he concedes, and the dark elves retreat, leaving the girl alone standing alone. I turn toward her expectantly.

As she approaches, her eyes dart around, taking in the scene of orcs celebrating and devouring their spoils. None of them even bothered to stop during my fight, too used to the bloodshed of our kind. She looks terrified, and yet, there's a resilience in her gaze that catches my attention. She stops a few feet away from me, trembling, her eyes finally meeting mine.

"What's your name?" I ask, my tone softer, though it still carries the weight of command.

"E-Emilia," she stammers, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Emilia," I repeat, tasting the name. It's delicate, like her. I step closer, towering over her, and she tilts her head back to look up at me. I can see the fear in her eyes, but also a flicker of defiance. Interesting.

She swallows hard. I can tell she's trying to be brave, but the uncertainty is clear in her eyes. I feel a strange mix of amusement and admiration. This will be... interesting.

Turning to my team, I raise my voice. "Tonight, we celebrate! For the Bloodcrushers and our new spoils!"

A cheer erupts from my teammates, and I feel a surge of pride. As they joke about who will claim Emilia, the air buzzes with crude comments and laughter. Rogar elbows Karg, a wicked grin on his face. "Think she can handle an orc, Karg?"

Karg snorts, "She looks like she'd snap in half! Maybe we should draw lots."

Laughter ripples through the group, but I'm not amused. Anger flares within me, a protective instinct I don't fully understand. These men are my brothers, my comrades, but their words about Emilia strike a nerve I didn't know I had.

I step forward wordlessly, pushing past Rogar and Karg, who have managed to get between me and Emilia, silencing their banter. The crowd murmurs in surprise as I reach for Emilia.

Her eyes widen as I lift her chin with a calloused hand, forcing her to look at me. In that moment, everything else fades away—the noise, the crowd, the victory. It's just her and me.

"She's mine," I declare gruffly, my voice brooking no argument. Emilia recoils slightly, but I hold her firm, my fingers gently yet insistently keeping her in place. Her skin is soft beneath my rough hand, and her large green eyes flicker with fear and something else—something that intrigues me deeply.

The way her auburn hair cascades around her face, the freckles dotting her fair skin, the delicate curve of her nose—it all captivates me in a way I can't explain. She seems so out of place here, so fragile amidst the brutality of our world. And yet, there's a spark in her eyes that speaks of resilience, of defiance. I'm drawn to it, to her.

The murmurs of the crowd die down, replaced by a tense silence. My team falls silent too, recognizing and respecting their captain's right to the prize. I see a few raised eyebrows and exchanged glances, but no one challenges me. They know better than to question my decisions.

"Understood, Captain," Rogar finally says, breaking the silence. There's a hint of respect in his voice, and he nods slightly. I can tell he's surprised, perhaps even impressed, by my claim.

I release Emilia's chin, my fingers brushing against the softness of her skin for a moment longer than necessary. She takes a step back, her breath quickening. I can see the confusion and fear in her eyes, but also that spark of defiance. Good. I'd hate for her to be completely broken.

As I look at her, I feel an unexpected pull. She's beautiful, yes, but it's more than that. There's something about her that stirs something deep within me, a curiosity maybe. I want to know who she is, what she's been through. I want to understand the fire that still burns in her despite everything – and how to make it burn only for me.

I've seen countless spoils of war, but none have ever affected me like this. There's a possessiveness growing inside me, a need to keep her safe from the world's harshness – for me to be the only that breaks her. She's mine.

"Come," I say, softer now but still authoritative. "You'll stay with me."

Emilia hesitates, then nods, her movements stiff and uncertain.