Vrasha returned to her hut—larger than most in the tribe, its walls draped with the spoils of her hunts. The interior was adorned with the pelts, claws, and fangs of magical beasts she had slain, their mounted heads glaring down like silent witnesses to her victories.
In the Ogre Tribe, such trophies were a mark of honor. The more heads an ogre displayed, the greater their respect. By that measure, Vrasha's hut practically screamed dominance.
She sat cross-legged on a thick tiger hide laid across the floor. The pelt served as both carpet and bed, its softness a rare luxury.
"Those idiots," she muttered, a cold snort escaping her. "Do they really think I won't find a man stronger than me? Ridiculous."
Her fingers tightened as she reached for her cooking supplies. "I should've crushed their pride for saying such nonsense… next time, I won't be so merciful. They'll choke on their words."
With that simmering fury in her eyes, she started a fire and cooked her meal in silence.
