Bells tolled across Aralon, and with every peal came another scream from the streets below. Liora's prayer broke on her lips when the ground shook, dust raining from the temple rafters.
With Liora's attention elsewhere, the wyldfire shivered. The golden flame that had burned steadily for a thousand years guttered like a candle in the wind, spitting sparks onto the mosaic tiles. She stared at it, heart racing. The flame was her life's work, her duty, her prison. It wasn't supposed to fail.
The great oak doors boomed once, twice, then splintered inward.
An orc warlord strode into the sacred hall as if he'd been born there, ducking beneath the shattered lintel. Chains still hung from his wrists, each link thick as her finger, dripping red. His pine-dark skin was carved with old scars and fresh wounds, tusks gleaming ivory in the firelight.
He filled the temple like a storm born into flesh. Every instinct in Liora screamed run, but her feet remained immobile.
He didn't look at the priests. He didn't look at the guards scrambling for their swords. He looked at her.
"Wyldflame," he growled, His words dragging rough across his tongue. "Liora."
The world narrowed to the sound of her name.
How did he know her name?
The High Inquisitor barked an order, but the words broke into a shriek as the ork crossed the floor in a blur. With a snap of his wrist, he turned his chains into terrifying weapons that tore down armored men, blood spraying the altar steps.
She watched the display of violence in horror, realizing that his might was so great that he didn't even need a weapon. His hands alone were enough to crush throats, to tear shields from men twice her size.
The priests scattered. The guards died. Liora was left frozen by the brazier, ash clinging to her lips where she'd whispered the last prayer only moments before.
She cast a volley of fireballs at him. Her final futile attempt to preserve her life.
Her fireballs struck his chest in a crackling volley. He staggered once, the flames licking across his skin, leaving nothing but a tiny patch of charred flesh.
He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his skin. Close enough that she could see the fine cracks of scar tissue running across his chest, the long claw mark raked down his shoulder. His scent hit her first: iron, sweat, and smoke. Not foul, not beastly, but raw, primal, alive.
"You're smaller than I imagined," he said, voice low, almost thoughtful. His gaze raked her from head to toe, not lewd, not mocking—assessing, weighing her like a blade in his hand.
She found her voice, sharp with fear. "You have no right to—"
The golden chain around her thin waist snapped tight. She gasped as he pulled, catching her against the solid wall of his chest. His tusks grazed the curve of her cheek as he bent close, his breath hot at her ear.
"No right?" His voice was a rumble, deep enough to vibrate in her bones. "You are the Wyldfire. Servant of the emperor. His leash tethered tight against your throat. A symbol of his control. A flame, caged by your empire."
Her pulse thundered. "I am no one's."
He laughed, low and rough, placing a firm hand on her hip: every hair on her body stood on end.
Behind them, the wyldfire guttered life again, spitting sparks that fell into the spreading blood. The brazier tilted, spilling flame across the mosaic floor. It roared to life, consuming the sacred symbols she had spent her whole life protecting.
The warlord—Varak, she would learn his name soon—didn't even glance at it. His grip on her waist tightened, not cruel but absolute. He was no wild beast. His every move carried purpose, inevitability, as though he had always known he would find her here.
The temple shook with another blast from outside—horns, drums, the roar of freed slaves spilling through the streets. The thunderous drums of a thousand heavily armored orcs shook the city. Their warchanters, beastbattlers, and battlebrothers tore the mighty walls of Aralon apart as Varak seized his prize and slung her over his shoulder like spoils of war. Her world was crumbling.
Liora's throat was dry. Her mind screamed for duty, for faith, for the litany of prayers she'd memorized since childhood. But her body—traitor that it was—trembled under his touch, every nerve alight where his touch pressed into her skin.
"What do you want from me?" she whimpered.
His tusks brushed her jaw as he leaned in, so close she could feel the dangerous curve of his mouth.
"Everything."