Somewhere deep in Hanigalbat. The middle of scorched nowhere. Arid plains stretching forever like cracked leather, sun so sharp it could peel skin. And me?
Nude. Again.
Chained—again—this time to a carved basalt obelisk that smells faintly of goat piss and old incense. Who even worships here? Probably some fertility cult that got wiped out for excessive pelvic thrusting.
Around my neck: a garland of wildflowers. One wilted blossom tucked behind my ear, barely clinging on like my dignity. At my feet: an absurdly oversized bronze plate glinting with coins, pearls, and even a few beads shaped like phalluses. Cute. Apparently, the villagers went all out. Either they bought the act, or they figured the obelisk needed a girlfriend.
I sigh and shift my weight, the chain jangling. It's chafing. Again.
Where is that scaly bastard?
This was supposed to be a quick one. I give them the sob story—flesh of moonlight, untouched by man, chosen by flame to bear the wrath of the beast—and they toss whatever they have at the altar. Dragon swoops in, fire and fanfare, takes the loot, I fake a swoon, we fly off. Classic.
But it's been two hours.
Maybe he got distracted by a shiny rock. Or maybe gout. Again.
I squint at the horizon. Nothing but yellow grass and baking air. The hush is too quiet. Not good.
Then—rustle.
Tall grass shifting. A bird? A deer? Please be a deer. A slow, edible one.
Another rustle. Closer.
Then I see them.
Fuck.
Not one. Not two. Five.
Big, hulking shapes emerging through the swaying blades like statues come to life. Skin like mossy basalt. Tusks. Bulging arms. Scarred chests.
Orcs.
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck."
Sneaky little villager bastards. They didn't hire a paladin. No silver-armored savior with a glowing sword and a tragic backstory. Oh no. They went for bulk discount muscle. Five-for-the-price-of-one mercenary meatheads.
I press my thighs together. Not for modesty. For tension. Survival tension.
One orc eyes the plate of treasure. Another sniffs the air. A third—gods save me—licks his tusk and grins.
I smile sweetly. "Gentlemen," I say, voice syrup-thick, "I assume you're here for the dragon."
They say nothing. Just spread out in a loose half-circle, slowly closing in.
I glance skyward. Still nothing. No shadow. No wingbeat. No sarcastic voice yelling about missed lunch.
"Any second now," I murmur.
Nothing.
"Oh come on, you ancient glitter-hoarding lizard. Where the fuck are you…"
They circle the obelisk like wolves eyeing a tethered lamb. Except wolves don't usually sniff your thighs. One of them crouches, nostrils flaring inches from my calf. Another pokes at the coin plate with a stubby, cautious finger like the gold might bite back. A third squints up at the obelisk, tilts his head, and runs a hand down the carvings with something disturbingly close to admiration.
I shift, chain rattling.
"Okay. This is a misunderstanding," I say slowly. "You're probably just… curious. That's fine. I'm very curious too. In fact, I was just thinking about how curious I am what the fuck you're doing."
They grunt. Not at me. At each other. Low, gravelly sounds like boulders being rubbed together. It's not Seebulban. Not even brothel-accent Sabrabenan. Some old dialect.
I don't understand a word.
That's bad.
Then, without so much as a "may we?" they dig in. Four of them wrap their thick arms around the base of the obelisk and start heaving. The ground groans. Dust puffs up in angry spurts.
"Wait. WAIT. What are you doing—"
And up I go.
Still chained. Still naked. Still wearing the floral garland like an idiot.
They hoist the whole damn thing—obelisk, girl, chain, and all—onto their shoulders. Like I'm a really disappointing holy relic.
I flail slightly. Dignity is a lost cause.
The fifth orc scoops the treasure into a sack, holding up one pearl and biting it experimentally. He grunts. Apparently authentic enough.
"Listen," I say, bouncing slightly with each step as they begin to march, "I respect cultural traditions. I do. But I don't recall 'steal the entire altar' being standard."
No response.
"Not that I'm judging! But if this is about some blood ritual or sacrificial barbecue, I'd like to state up front that I'm stringy and high in sarcasm. Very poor eating."
Still nothing.
This is not going to end well.
Then again, what ever does?
I mean, don't get me wrong—I have nothing against orcs. Honest. Some of them are absolute sweethearts once you get past the tusks and the tendency to resolve disputes by throwing logs at each other. I could take on one. Hell, I did take on one. Once.
That was a fun night. Big guy. Arms like siege weapons. Called himself Groth, I think, or maybe that was just the sound he made when he finished. Very into consent, surprisingly. Made me tea afterwards. Good tea, too—mint and something smoky.
But five?
The girl has her limits.
Five orcs and I'm still chained to a rock like some ornamental fruit basket. That's not a good ratio. That's not even a negotiable ratio. That's a bend over and kiss your dignity goodbye ratio.
And not the fun kind.
This is not going to end well.
They're not rough with me—yet. More… utilitarian. Like I'm part of the décor. One of them has started humming. Orc humming, which is more like low-key throat singing while chewing gravel, but still.
Maybe they think I'm some kind of fertility idol. That would track. Nudity, flowers, obelisk. I must look like the laziest temple statue ever carved. I just hope they don't try to offer me livestock. Or worse—expect me to bless one of them with a child.
Not happening.
The chain pulls tight as they shift their grip. I swing slightly, ass in the wind, dignity evaporating with each step.
Any minute now. He's going to show up. Big dramatic entrance. Wingspan, firebreath, snide comment about my posture.
Any minute.
Right?