Shava stood alone in the dim storeroom behind her house, back pressed to the rough wall as if the wood could hold her upright. Her hands shook so violently she had to clasp them together to keep the tremor from showing. Every breath tasted like ash.

She had not known.

She had not wanted to know.

Borg's sister, Drashka, who used to braid flowers into Shava's hair when they were children, had been exiled on Shava's testimony. One quiet nod in the clan circle, one carefully worded accusation to collaborate the lies of Borg, and the sentence was sealed.

Shava had told herself it was justice, that Drashka had crossed a line no orc could forgive. Borg had begged her, on his knees in the mud, to go against her friend. She had looked him in the eye and lied to herself for a brief second that Drashka was capable of the barbaric things she had been accused of.

The fact that she would never had met Borg if not for Drashka made this situation worse.

Three moons later Drashka was "dead", sent away to the goblins to be used as they pleased.

They sent Borg her ears as proof.

Borg had to maintain the appearance of a mourning brother after that. The laughing orc who shared plum brandy and stories became a cold, smiling blade. Shava had pretended not to notice. Easier to believe he simply grew harder with age than to admit she had carved the softness out of him with her own tongue.

Now she had seen the emptiness in his eye, there was never anybody behind, no rage, only a hollow, mechanical need to break whatever stood in front of him. That emptiness, she hoped she could fix him because a part of her felt guilty for what transpired.

She betrayed her friend without listening to her side of the story because deep down, she knew

Her knees buckled. She slid down the wall until she sat on the dirty floor, arms wrapped around herself as though she could hold the guilt inside. Tears came hot and sudden, silent, the kind that hurt more than screaming. Each one carried the memory of Drashka's laugh, of Drashka's broken voice pleading, of the moment she chose Borg over their friendship.

"I killed you," she whispered to the universe almost like she was begging for it to make the pain stop.

The words cracked something open in her chest. Shame flooded in, thick and choking, but beneath it burned something fiercer: resolve.

She pressed her forehead to her knees, claws digging into her own arms hard enough to draw blood. Pain felt right. Pain was honest.

"I will fix this," she promised the dark, voice raw and trembling but steady.

"Whatever it costs me. I will drag you to the depths of hell, Borg," Shava made a vow.

She rose on unsteady legs, wiped her face with the heel of her hand, and walked out to find him.

Guilt was a heavy chain, but she would wear it until it broke, or until it dragged her under trying to make things right.

-

The sun hung high and red when Kragg and other orcs had overran 80% of the mine.

No horns, no drums. Just the steady tramp of iron-shod boots and the creak of wagon wheels loaded with chains. a few orcs advanced in silence, shields locked, spears ready. Kraghul rode at the front, black cloak snapping behind him like a banner of death.

The mine's outer defenses had already been opened. Stakes pulled aside, barricades rolled away, hidden shards swept into neat piles. A single goblin stood in the gateway, arms raised, palms empty.

Torgzit.

His voice carried thin and hopeless across the killing ground.

"Drop everything. It's over. Vrognut broke us. We've got no food, no real weapons, and no fight left. Lay down and live."

Behind him, hundreds of goblins shuffled out of the tunnels like ghosts. Spears and clubs clattered to the dirt. No one resisted. Eyes stayed on the ground. They dare not look their new conquerers in the eyes or tey could still survive this predicament.

Kragg raised one gauntleted hand. The orcs halted.

Then the chains came out.

At first it was orderly: wrists bound, lines formed, prisoners ready to be marched into the morning light but this wasn't the case because the orcs saw an opportunity.

But the moment the goblins were on their knees, something shifted.

An orc struck the nearest prisoner across the face with a mailed fist. Another drove a boot into a goblin's ribs. Laughter rose, low and ugly. Whips cracked. Knives flashed. A young goblin screamed as hot iron was pressed to his cheek, the smell of burning flesh mixing with dust and fear.

Kragg saw all of this from his horse and watched, eyes narrowing.

He had ordered surrender accepted, prisoners taken alive.

He had not ordered this cruelty.

Yet none of his warriors looked to him for permission. They struck with the casual cruelty of orcs unloading old, personal hate. Every blow carried years of raids remembered, every disgust they received by sharing the same skin complexion as they see. Surrender only removed the excuse; it did not remove the hatred.

A goblin child was dragged by his hair, begging. An orc smashed his face into the dirt again and again until the begging stopped. Another prisoner was hoisted upside-down while warriors took turns with knives, carving slow stripes down green skin.

Torgzit, wrists already shackled, stared in dull horror. He had chosen surrender to spare them death.

He had not imagined this was waiting. Kragg's jaw tightened.

He had known orcs hated goblins.

He had not known how deep the rot ran, how willingly his own kind would ignore orders the moment these little creatures were unarmed before them.

One of the orcs laughed as he broke a goblin's arm with a casual twist.

"Finally get to finish what we started all those years ago,"

"Enough," Kraghul's voice cut across the yard like a whip-crack.

The laughter died. Hands paused mid-blow.

He rode forward slowly, horse stepping over groaning bodies. When he reached the center he dismounted, boots crunching on broken teeth and dirt

"Chain them," Kragg said, voice flat and terrible.

"Alive. Anyone who disobeys answers to me," Kragg reminded them who was in charge.

A few orcs shifted, sullen, but the whips lowered.

Kragg looked over the kneeling, bleeding horde and felt something cold settle in his gut.

He had taken the mine without losing a single warrior.

But the aftermath of this victory left a bitter taste in his mouth.

-

The room was quiet except for the soft rise and fall of Byung's breathing. He was injured but it wasn't anything his body couldn't heal from.

Maui checked his ribs and it was fortunate that he didn't take more damage.

He lay curled on his side, face slack with the kind of sleep that comes only after the body has nothing left to give. Bruises darkened his jaw and ribs, cuts crusted over, one small hand tucked under his cheek like a child's. Dust and dried blood still streaked his green skin, but exhaustion had smoothed away every sharp edge. He looked impossibly fragile.

Maui sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, watching him with the softest smile Murkfang had ever seen on an orc. Her huge hand rested lightly on the blanket over Byung's shoulder, thumb tracing slow, idle circles, careful not to press the bruises beneath.

Murkfang, propped against pillows on the far side, found the strength to speak for the first time since the fever broke. His voice came out a cracked whisper.

"I never thought I'd see an orc look at a goblin like that. Like… he's something precious," Murkfang muttered, trying his best to speak through his labored breathing.

Maui didn't pay him much attention. Her gaze stayed on Byung's sleeping face, the smile deepening, warm and affectionate. Murkfang swallowed because he had no idea how she would perceive the next words coming out of his mouth.

"Do you… love him?" Murkfang questioned. The question hung in the dusty air.

Maui's hand stilled. For one heartbeat her eyes flickered, surprise, uncertainty, something vast and unnamed. Then the smile returned, softer than before, and she let out a breath that sounded almost like relief.

"I think I am," she said, voice low, wondering, as if discovering the truth in the same moment she spoke it. "Yeah… I think I am," Maui repeated once again.

She brushed a stray lock of hair from Byung's forehead with one careful fingertip, tusks glinting in a grin that held no mockery, only quiet certainty.

Murkfang watched them. The tiny, battered goblin and the mountain of an orc who had carried him through fire and felt something inside his chest unclench.

For the first time in days, the world felt a little less broken and Murkfang watched Byung do the impossible.

This goblin was superior to him and there was no doubt about it anymore.

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