13. Claire

13

CLAIRE

M y heart thunders in my chest. I fill my lungs with the icy air and step out of the concealing shadows of the forest. My voice soon slices through the stillness. "Hey, you ugly bastards! Over here!" I shout. I wave my arms like a madwoman, knowing full well the danger that will course toward me.

The orcs' heads snap in my direction, their eyes gleaming with predatory intent. I feel their gaze like a physical force, a palpable threat that propels my legs into a desperate sprint. The forest becomes a blur of shadows and snow as I start to weave through the trees, the sound of pursuit growing ever closer. "This was stupid," I berate myself, the taste of fear metallic on my tongue. "So, so stupid."

Glancing back, I see the orcs gaining ground. Their snarls are a chilling symphony to the terror that claws at my chest. "Run!" I scream loudly to the children, my voice raw. "Run now!"

Within a matter of seconds, a frozen lake looms ahead. Its surface is a deceptive expanse of silver under the moonlight. Doubt gnaws at me—can I cross it? Will it hold?

The roar of the orcs behind me is a savage cacophony that spurs me forward. Just as my boot touches the ice, a massive arm ensnares my waist, yanking me backward. I'm airborne for a heartbeat before being unceremoniously dumped onto a snowbank. The impact knocks the wind out of me, and I gasp for breath, my vision swimming.

I look up, expecting to meet the cruel eyes of an orc, but instead, I'm met with a familiar, scarred visage. Thrag stands between me and the approaching danger, his body a tense wall of muscle and fury. "What the hell are you doing?" he snarls, his amber eyes flashing with anger.

"Saving those kids!" I retort, struggling to stand. My heart races not just from the adrenaline but from the nearness of him, the raw power that emanates from every inch of his orcish form.

"You're going to get yourself killed," Thrag growls, his gaze never leaving the oncoming threat.

"I couldn’t just leave them!" I insist, my voice shaking with urgency. "They're my responsibility."

Thrag's jaw clenches, the cords of his neck standing out. "Just stay behind me," he orders, his voice a deep rumble that brooks no argument.

The orcs soon burst from the tree line, their weapons gleaming in the moonlight. Thrag stands his ground, his axe at the ready, a fierce protector against the encroaching darkness. The air crackles with tension.

Thrag's amber eyes ignite with a fiery determination. "You need to stay put," he commands. I want to argue, to insist on standing by his side, but there's no time. The orcs are almost upon us, their grunts and snarls echoing through the night.

Thrag charges forward without a moment's hesitation, his axe slicing through the air with lethal precision. The first orc doesn't stand a chance. Thrag cleaves through its chest with a single, powerful swing. Crimson sprays across the pristine snow, painting a gruesome tableau that would make me sick were it not for the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Another orc lunges, its blade arcing toward Thrag's broad back. But he's already moving, his reactions almost supernaturally quick. He sidesteps the attack and counters with a swift elbow to the orc's face, following up with a brutal slash that opens its throat in a gush of blood.

I can't tear my eyes away, even as my mind rebels against the savagery of the scene unfolding before me. Thrag is a whirlwind of destruction, his movements raw and untamed, yet each action is calculated, each strike landing with deadly accuracy. An orc manages to land a hit, its blade leaving a ragged wound across Thrag's muscular shoulder. The sight of his blood, dark against his greenish skin, sends a jolt of fear through me. But Thrag doesn't falter. He seizes the orc by the head and slams it into the ground with such force that the impact echoes in the stillness.

The last orc soon falls, its lifeless eyes staring blankly at the star-strewn sky. Thrag stands amidst the carnage, his chest heaving with exertion, his body marred by new wounds that will surely leave more scars.

I rush to his side, my hands shaking as I reach out to touch his arm. "Thrag, are you okay?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. He glares at me, a mix of annoyance and something else—something I can't quite identify—flashing in his amber gaze. But he doesn't pull away as I gently probe the gash on his shoulder.

"You're reckless," he growls, wincing as I apply pressure to the wound.

"I knew you would come," I say softly, holding his gaze. Inside, I'm reeling, a tumult of gratitude and disbelief churning within me. This orc, who had every reason to leave me to my fate, chose to stand and fight. For me. For those children.

Thrag's glare softens, just barely, but he says nothing. The silence stretches between us, filled with the heavy thud of my heart and the distant howl of a winter wind. I realize then that my life has become irrevocably entwined with his, this unlikely protector who defies every expectation I've ever had of his kind.

I release a shaky breath, my fingers lingering on the warm skin of his arm. "We need to get back to the children," I say, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. Thrag nods, his expression unreadable.

As we make our way back to find the children, I can't help but cast sidelong glances at Thrag. His face is a mask of stoicism, but I can see the weariness in the set of his shoulders, the slight hitch in his stride. He's hurt, and yet, he doesn't slow down, doesn't complain. His strength isn't just in his impressive physique; it's in his unwavering resolve, his willingness to stand against the darkness, even when it costs him dearly.