Forbidden Oaths

The metallic scent of blood and smoke that hung in the air was thick and suffocating, pulling a pained moan from the Alaric as he lay on the floor. Pain pulsed through the prone Elven healer’s body as he stirred, his limbs sluggish, his mind slow to piece together what had happened. Memories of the battle that had brought him here flickered behind Alaric’s eyelids—the clash of steel, the screams of his companions, and the sickening weight of loss pressing down on him.

He was the only one left.

The sickening realization struck him like a blade to the chest. His heart pounded as he forced his green eyes open, taking in the dim, fire-lit space around him. Roughhewn walls of grey stone loomed overhead, unfamiliar, and the flickering light of torches cast jagged shadows of the interior landscape. He was inside an Orc stronghold. Captured. Trapped.

As the redhead moved, the chains rattled, causing a sharp tug at his wrists and ankles, prompting him to clench his teeth. He was bound, but not cruelly so—restraints meant to hold, not to break. The room was sparse, a warrior’s quarters, not a dungeon. His understanding of orc customs was limited. That only meant one thing: someone had claimed him. Someone wanted him alive. To what end he wasn't sure.

The healer’s breath quickened. He could still smell the battlefield on his skin—ash, iron, and fear. His robes, once white, were torn and stiff with dried blood. His sun-kissed fingers, slender and trembling, curled reflexively as he tested the movement allowed by his restraints. He had enough strength to sit, perhaps kneel, but not to stand. His mind reeled with questions: Why had they spared him? Why had he been brought here? What fate awaited him in this place?

He closed his eyes again, hoping it was all a fevered nightmare. But the pain was real. The bindings were real. And the heavy, muffled sounds of Orc life beyond the wooden door were unmistakable. The healer had heard tales of strongholds—of brutal, honor-bound tribes where might ruled above all. They were Orcs who took what they wanted, who fought until the ground turned red, and who sang their victories in bone and steel.

Alaric had never believed he would see one from the inside. He never imagined that he would become its captive. His thoughts drifted to the battle again—how fast it had turned. Their mission had been a diplomatic one, an attempt to heal the rift along the contested borders. The high elders had sent them with banners of peace and intentions of unity. But the Orcs had not come to talk.

They had descended like thunder.

Alaric had held his ground, channeling what power he could to form protective wards to keep others alive long enough to escape. He remembered shielding a young archer, placing his body between her and a charging brute. He remembered the cracking of bone. His voice raised in a last, desperate incantation. Then pain. Then darkness.

Now, only silence.

A heavy footstep echoed beyond the door. He swallowed hard, hatred burning in his veins as the door creaked open. A massive silhouette filled the space, golden eyes gleaming in the dim light. This was the warrior who had wreaked havoc on his people.

Sahgorim Bloodfist filled the room with his presence before he spoke a word. The large green orc stood tall, shoulders broad beneath rough furs and leather, his muscles corded with power. The hilt of a weapon was at his hip, and his exposed deep green arms bore marks of battles past—scars, old and fresh, crossing over ceremonial tattoos. A cruel twist of amusement played on his lips as his gaze swept over the russet-haired healer with lazy satisfaction.

“Still alive, are you?” His voice was deep, rough with amusement, carrying a hint of something darker beneath. “Good. It would have been a shame if you didn’t last.” The healer tightened his jaw, refusing to provide this brute with the satisfaction of a response. His heart pounded against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was at the mercy of his captor, but he would not break.

Not for him. Not for anyone.

Sahgorim stepped closer, each step deliberate and heavy. He crouched beside the healer, one large hand resting on his knee as he studied the elf’s face. His golden eyes glittered with something possessive.

“You’ve got fire in you, little elf. I like that.” His fingers brushed against the healer’s jaw, a touch far too intimate. “You’ll learn your place soon enough.”

Alaric turned his face away sharply, his voice hoarse but steady. “I’d rather die.”

The Orc chuckled, low and dark, the sound curling around the healer like smoke. “Oh, I don’t think so.” He leaned in closer, his breath warm against the healer’s skin. “You’re mine now, whether you like it or not, elf.”

He stood and took one last lingering look at his prize before striding toward the door. The room felt colder once he was gone, but the healer knew his absence was temporary.

Time blurred in the silence that followed. Alaric sat curled against the wall, knees drawn up, breath shallow. The redhead’s magic, once a gentle hum beneath his skin, had diminished to a mere whisper. Whether it was the bindings, the trauma, or the crushing presence of Orcish power around him, he couldn’t say. But it left him feeling raw and exposed.

The room grew dimmer as torchlight faded. Somewhere beyond the walls, a horn blew—low and mournful, like a wolf’s cry in the dusk.

He could hear the stomp of heavy boots, boots made for combat; the clang of armor; and the call of orders in a tongue he barely understood. Life in the stronghold moved on, indifferent to the elf in chains.

Yet still, he waited. Alaric cataloged every sound. The crackle of fire. The scrape of steel. The bark of laughter. He would learn their rhythms. He would learn their weaknesses.

His mind raced. Escape seemed impossible. But survival? His survival meant enduring. He would watch, waiting for the perfect moment to escape.

He would not belong to anyone. Not even him. Especially not him.

When sleep came, it came without dreams. There was only silence and the gentle ache of survival.