Chapter 1- Spoils of War

The war had finally ended.

For over a decade, the orcs and elves had battled across blood-soaked fields and broken lands—until a greater evil forced us into an uneasy alliance. Together, we fought the Ender of Worlds: a dragon so vast its wings cast the world into shadow with every beat.

My sisters and I did the impossible. We killed it.

I dealt the final blow myself, driving my blade through its eye so deep it pierced its brain. I rode its writhing death spiral to the end, and when it finally collapsed, its massive skull crushed my leg beneath it. They said I would never walk again.

But I’m an orc.

We don’t take “no” from anyone—not even fate. I walk now, and I walk strong. I am Lord Commander among my sisters, a living legend among my people. Because of that deed, a final peace treaty was signed—one meant to last forever between elf and orc.

My rewards were many. Titles. Land. Praise.

But none were as beautiful, or as strange, as her.

My future wife.

She stands now on the dais before me, the prize of peace. She looks like a creature spun from mist and light: pale, frail, barely more than skin and bones. Her golden hair falls in silken braids past her waist. Her dress is gossamer and clings like light—shimmering white, nearly gold in the setting sun. She wears tall, stilted sandals that seem more like torture devices than footwear.

“Am I satisfactory, master?” she asks softly, her voice barely louder than a breeze. Her steps are careful, her small hips swaying with practiced grace. She doesn’t look me in the eye. I see the hunger hollowing her cheeks, the faint violet of tiredness beneath her eyes, the delicate points of her ears pressed back in fear.

Next to her, I am a mountain.

I am not beautiful—not in the way she is. I am an orc. Built for war, for power, not for courtship. My bicep is thicker than her waist. My hair, unbound from the warrior’s braid, has been twisted into ceremonial knots for the wedding, a heavy black mane that falls past my shoulders. My armor is traditional—fur and iron draped across my shoulders, a heavy cape pinned with fangs. My gauntlets are layered with metal and hide. My chest is bound only by plated fur and leather, leaving my cleavage and abs bare to show my strength. My skirt hangs low from a wide belt, ceremonial plating at my thighs and knees, the rest uncovered.

Tattoos and battle scars mark every inch of me.

They say I’m handsome—for an orc. That maybe there’s human blood in me. I’ve broken bones over less. But there’s something in my face, despite the thick tusks and the one that snapped in battle, that makes elves and humans less afraid of me.

I am no diplomat. But I am what they sent.

She stumbles over the word again. “M-master?”

I tilt my head and gently place a finger under her chin. My hand dwarfs her face. Her blue eyes, wide and frightened, finally trail up my body until they meet mine.

“You are quite satisfactory,” I say, voice low. “You are welcome in my house, milady. I am your servant.”

Her eyes widen.

I take her delicate hand and guide it over my forearm, patting it softly with one finger. “Are you ready? I know I’m not what you imagined. I know marrying the enemy wasn’t your dream. But you’ll be safe. You’ll be looked after.”

She nods, trembling.

Together, we turn toward the gathered crowd. Toward the elven noble and the old orc shaman waiting to wed us.

Together, we begin something new.