The great hall of Kragg's keep erupted into pandemonium the moment Borg's scream pierced the air. "Goblins! The goblins killed the chief!" His voice, ragged and desperate, echoed off the stone walls, sending orcs scrambling from their benches and grabbing weapons mid-drink. Tankards crashed to the floor, spilling rum and ale in sticky pools. Chairs toppled as warriors surged toward the doors, tusks bared, eyes wild with rage. The captured goblins, chained in the pens just outside, were suddenly free—locks mysteriously picked, irons snapped open in the confusion. They bolted for the shadows, small green shapes darting through the chaos like rats fleeing a flood.

The knife still protruding from Kragg's gut was unmistakably goblin-made: short, curved blade with a stone handle etched in crude runes, the kind they had used in desperate fights against orcs. No way goblins could have snuck in and fatally injured Kragg, the mighty chief, even if he was drowsy from rum. He was a wall of muscle, sober or not. But logic drowned in the tide of fury. The orcs didn't question; they smelled betrayal, and their rage had only one outlet.

Borg staggered from the throne room, clutching his "wounds", self-inflicted scratches for show, pointing wildly at the fleeing goblins.

"They did it! Stabbed him and ran! Kill them all!" Borg commanded.

The mob exploded outward. Orcs roared, axes flashing under the torchlight as they chased the escaped prisoners. The goblins, dazed from captivity, didn't stand a chance. One was caught by the neck and slammed against a wall until his skull cracked like an egg, brains spilling gray and pink. Another was hacked in half mid-sprint, legs kicking uselessly as the upper body crawled a few feet before going still. A group of three goblins tried to fight back with knives; an orc grabbed one by the arms and tore him apart like wet paper, limbs popping from sockets with wet snaps. The others were trampled, bones crunching under heavy boots, screams cut short by stomps to the throat.

It was brutal, merciless slaughter. Orcs cussed as they worked, venting years of hatred on the small, frail bodies. One goblin begged on his knees; an orc kicked his teeth in, then stomped his head flat. Another was strung up by his ankles and gutted alive, entrails steaming in the cold air. The pens became a killing ground, green blood soaking the earth until it turned to mud. Borg watched from the doorway, a twisted smile creeping across his battered face.

He had freed the goblins himself, right after plunging the knife into Kragg's gut in the throne room, then whipped up the story to shape the narrative.

But Shava was not fooled.

She caught him alone in a side corridor as the slaughter raged outside. Her hand shot out like a viper, grabbing his neck and slamming him against the wall. Borg gagged, feet kicking air, his injuries from the earlier fight with Byung reopening under the pressure.

"What have you done!?" She snarled, tusks inches from his face.

"That story's bullshit. No goblin can kill Kragg, drunk or not. You did it! Why!?" Shava questioned.

"False... accusations... taken seriously..." Borg's eyes bulged, but he managed a choked chuckle.

Shava's fist slammed into his face, crunching nose and splitting lip. Blood sprayed.

"You think this is funny? This has consequences. You planned this!" Shava cussed but she knew the other orcs would buy the story because they had never seen his vulnerable side, unlike her.

This would make Borg's story believable because Kragg had alcohol in his system.

Borg gasped as she loosened her grip slightly, sliding down the wall. He wiped blood from his mouth, still chuckling.

"Remember your commitment, Shava. You're my wife soon. And right now... I gave you an early gift before our marriage," Borg said.

"What gift?" She stared, confusion mixing with rage.

"This region. Become their leader," Borg said, eyes gleaming.

"With Kragg dead, the orcs will need a new leader. You'll lead them—once you beat the challengers. It's yours for the taking," Borg tried his best to get her on his side because she was an important piece.

Not only that, in his own twisted way, he cared about her.

Shava's face crumpled. Tears welled in her eyes as the weight hit her. She couldn't believe this nightmare. She blamed herself—for trusting Borg, for not seeing his ambition sooner, for throwing Kragg's intuition off. "I... I'm responsible for this," she whispered, voice breaking.

Borg pushed himself up, his twisted comfort coming in a low, soothing tone.

"Shava, love, this is our chance. Kragg was weak. You and me—we'll rule stronger. No more scraping for scraps," Borg reassured her.

But Shava knew in that moment, as she backed away wiping tears, that Borg couldn't have done this alone. The timing, the goblin knife, the freed prisoner—someone backed him. Someone bigger. The thing he had thrown into the river earlier, perhaps a message scroll, flashed in her mind. She couldn't act rashly, or she'd be next.

She needed to know who was pulling his strings.

Shava backed down, forcing a nod.

"Fine. We'll talk later," Shava agreed to his terms.

Borg's eyes darkened with triumph—and something else. He got hard right there, arousal mixing with the adrenaline of his betrayal. He stepped closer, hand undoing his belt, cock springing free, dangling thick and veined in front of her face. Everything he ever wanted was within grasp: power, the region, Shava broken and his. The war he craved so bad—he was about to get it.

Shava couldn't believe he was this sick, this twisted, but she had to play along until she could uncover his backer. Tears still wet on her cheeks, she knelt slowly, hands shaking as she took him in her mouth. Borg groaned, grabbing her hair, thrusting rough and deep. He face-fucked her with savage rhythm, hips slamming forward, cock hitting the back of her throat until she gagged. Saliva mixed with tears dripped down her chin as he used her, grunting with pleasure.

He went harder, faster, holding her head in place, forcing her to take every inch. His balls slapped against her chin with each brutal push, the wet sounds filling the air.

Shava's mind raced with plans and hatred, but her body submitted, throat working to accommodate him. Finally, with a guttural roar, Borg came, flooding her mouth with hot seed. She swallowed reflexively, choking, as he held her there until she swallowed every last drop.

He pulled out, tucking himself away with a satisfied sigh. Shava knew he was only able to do this because she allowed him, she wasn't powerless in this situation but had a new role to play.

Shava wiped her mouth. She would find who he was working with. And then she would end them both.

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