In the castle’s so-called “conference room,” half of the occupants had left, but half remained.

Oolga let out a light chuckle. I’ll be seeing her again tonight, I’m sure.

She glanced to the side, where Rigdam still seemed to be worrying about something.

“You really haven’t been keeping up your end of the bargain,” she teased, “but it isn’t really your fault, either.”

Rigdam only let out a sigh in response. Oolga was quiet for a moment, then, “Why did you call her a Monster?”

“Shouldn’t that be obvious,” he blurted out. Gossip about Vyra’s activities had already started spreading, and Rigdam was the most connected to that network. She was already strong enough to be called a monster, but she did monstrous things too, like enslaving and brainwashing people, taking an enemy commander as a pet, granting life to a soulless body and assigning it as a magic teacher.

Oolga hummed. “Yeah, our daughter is a monster… but she’s a Monster too. Which did you mean?”

Oolga could feel Rigdam’s body heat elevate slightly through her ; his heart rate had increased.

“I meant monster,” he said, shaking his head calmly.

Oolga leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling, muttering, “How many days are in a week?”

“Ten,” he replied automatically. There wasn’t even a hint of hesitation.

The Mayhem Orc turned only her head and stared deeply at him. “Your language blessing is a little weak, isn’t it, Rigdam? I said week as in a human week, which is six days. Didn’t that translate?”

Rigdam’s heart rate increased again, but he acted naturally, folding his arms like he was offended. “Maybe it’s a little weak. Are you going to criticize me for that?”

“No,” she looked back at the ceiling. “Different monsters possess the same blessing at varying strengths. Actually, I should commend you for studying hard to make up for that. You’re keeping pace with Durghan, at least.”

Rigdam snorted. He was feeling uncomfortable and would have liked to leave, but Oolga was emitting a silent pressure that compelled him to stay seated. Several minutes passed with them like that.

“I wonder why I heard you say Monster. You "underestimated how hard it would be to raise a Monster."” She trailed off, all the while monitoring Rigdam’s body temperature and implied heart rate. “Was there ever the potential for you to raise anything else? A beast or a descendant, for example?” Rigdam said nothing. “... How’s my sister in law doing lately? The little one.”

Rigdam sighed. “Why are you bringing her up with this timing?”

Oolga chuckled. “You think I’m reading too much into it? Relax. You and your sister are definitely Orcs.”

“I don’t understand why that should even be in question,” he grumbled.

“Rigdam?” He grunted. “Stop.” The man looked over and saw Oogla’s eyes boring into him. “You’re not good at this,” she continued. “Not nearly as good as I was. The only reason you haven’t been seriously questioned until now is that nobody would have even considered the possibility.”

“What possibility?” he rolled his eyes.

“I told you to stop,” she said coldly, prompting them to enter another span of silence. “I’m sure you feel bad about it,” Oolga said softly. “You went out of your way to tell her about that incident, after all. To be honest, I’d like an apology too.”

He furrowed his brows unsurely, so she elaborated, “You know how I’m well-known for traveling around. Did you think that, because I’m still here, I was unaffected?”

Oolga pulled up the hem of her shirt and pointed toward her abdomen. A little above her navel was a very thin and faint line, about an inch long. It was almost hidden by the contours of her muscles. Nobody would notice if it weren’t shown to them.

“I have very good reflexes,” she said. Rigdam’s eyes went wide and trembled. He gripped his fists under the table. “But do you know what I almost lost?” A weak flame flared up on the surface of the scar, forcing his eyes to look toward it.

“I’m sorry,” he said weakly.

Oolga waited a moment, then nodded and lowered her shirt back down. “Then good.”

“I’m really sorry,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“Really, I—” tears had started to well up by now, and his voice stopped.

“Does it feel good to apologize?” she asked. He nodded.

“Alright.” Oolga reached over and patted her unwilling mate on the shoulder. She sighed. “You’re too sensitive.”

Shockingly, Rigdam sidled up to her voluntarily, burying his snout in her shoulder. Oolga’s eyebrows shot up, and she awkwardly put her arms around him.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“Um, there-there. It’s not your fault. Uh, your momma would be happy that her kids are living someplace safe.”

An unpleasant dampness started to seep through her thin leather shirt, making Oolga frown. "There-there, don't cry." She tried very hard not to show her irritation in her voice. 

I really don't like men who cry too easily, she grumbled internally.

"There-there."

***

Bazarath looked around at the swarm of his people, chatting, laughing, and working. They all looked healthy and happy. It wasn’t much different to how they would have looked before this pointless war. But this scene wasn’t that scene. Here, they weren’t surrounded by huts, but by buildings made of metal and stone. There were no chains on his people, but they were enslaved. The shackles were in their minds.

And they were chatting in rough Orcish, the language of their slave masters.

Bazarath took a shaky breath and approached a small group of Fomors.

“Excuse me,” he said in their native language, “do any of you have time to talk?”

The slaves looked at each other and shrugged. “Yeah, I mean,” one of them put down the Orc hide he’d been processing, “This is just busy work until we have something assigned to us.” They figured this person was too new to understand Orcish, so they spoke in Fomor.

He nodded, “Are you still allowed to process that stuff here?”

“Of course!” The first Fomor smiled, holding up his work so far. “Orc hide is thin and smooth compared to ours. It’s much better for making thin leather for clothes or strips for sewing.”

Bazarath nodded and made a mental note of that. “What do you eat around here?” he asked next.

“The same stuff as usual,” he shrugged. “The Goblins grow lots of fresh vegetables, though, so we have some of those sometimes. Maybe because this is an Orc city, there’s plenty of food.”

Bazarath made another mental note. He’d seen the Goblins around. So they worked in the fields? Was it willingly?

“Are The Goblins slaves too?”

“They’re a “subordinate race,”" the Fomor said slowly in New Orcish. “They live and work here in exchange for protection. Those guys were apparently taken in after a Magic Beast nearly wiped out their tribe.”

“I see,” Bazarath trailed off. The others in this small group had already gone back to chatting and working. “I spoke with the Orc Lord. My position right now is… well, at least I’m not a slave. But, she said that she would gradually raise our people to citizen status. She promised to free you all.”

The people in the group all looked at him, then started smiling and chatting again. They looked a bit interested in the idea but beyond that…

“Why?” he choked. “Shouldn’t you be more excited? If our positions were reversed, I think I would cry tears of joy knowing I would be freed.”

“I mean, that sounds great, of course,” a woman quickly tried to appease him. “It’s just, we’re doing just fine even without that, so it’s like…”

Someone else picked up for her, “It would be good to have it, but it’s no loss even if we don’t.”

Bazarath felt the fire of vengeance making his guts boil. “Are you people even aware of what she did to your minds?”

One woman stepped forward and put her hand over her heart. “She made the pain go away, and she made me happy to work and to live with what I have. If I am freed,” a complicated look crossed her face, “I hope I remember how I felt as a slave. If all these good feelings and memories just vanish, and all that’s left is the pain I felt before, then I would rather be a slave. Maybe that’s the brainwashing talking, but I’d rather be happy than free.”

Bazarath felt like sobbing, but he held back. “Are you really happy? Isn’t that happiness just a lie?”

The woman frowned. “If there’s such a thing as fake happiness, then a free person would be just as at risk as a slave. Please don’t say something like that when you don’t know how I feel.”

A few Orcs called the group away, then. They needed a few extra hands for some crafting project or another. The slaves left obediently, leaving Bazarath red-eyed and alone. He looked to the sky and rested a hand over his eyes, laughing from the pain.

“My people are alive and well, but this hurts even more than seeing them dead. I feel like the last of my kind.”

Some footsteps started approaching from behind him. Bazarath adjusted his posture and fixed his expression, glaring suspiciously between the buildings. Soon, a head of blonde hair came into view.

Ah, that mutated War Orc. Bazarath had seen him fighting during the final battle. Without using weapons, he beat down four Fomor chiefs all on his own.

“The Orc Lord’s General, was it? Am I being summoned back to her majesty’s bloodied side, or is this just bad luck?”

Varoon came within speaking distance and smirked, folding his arms. “My sister was right about that tongue of yours.”

Bazarath tilted his head. “Sister?”

The blonde War Orc gave a pained smile, “Yep, that monster is my sister.”

Bazarath furrowed his brow. “You don’t speak too fondly of her.”

Varoon frowned. “It’s complicated. Have you heard what she did earlier today?”

“She did something?”

“Does the name Azza sound familiar?”

Bazarath’s body tensed. “One of our chiefs and our best magic caster. She gathered most of the Small Baphomets into her village and,” he grimaced, “she went missing shortly after the . We,” his ears flicked, “we assumed she died.”

Varoon nodded. “She teleported into our front lines, convinced I was the Orc Lord, for some reason. It wasn’t a fair or fast battle, but I broke her neck in the end.”

Bazarath’s ears flattened against the top of his head. There might have been a part of him that hoped she was able to escape. Nobody could have matched her mobility with the help of if she had fled with everything she had. He did think it was unlikely they would let her slip by, though, since this war had been started in order to wipe out the threat of the Small Baphomets.

“She was one of the most reasonable of Baythes’ chosen. I’m sad to hear she’s gone.”

“Well, she’s back now,” Varoon muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “My sister seems to have used her in an experiment on reviving the dead. She’s lecturing on magic in the school building now.”

“What?!” The Fomor’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “She… Why would she…” he had some trouble finding the words. “After waging a war of genocide, why would she bring someone back?!”

Varoon chuckled coldly. “I think that will make sense once you meet with her. And I also think that that’s Vyra’s backup plan for you. Try not to piss her off, okay?”

Bazarath started trotting, intending to meet with Azza as soon as possible. If she had been allowed to remain herself, like he was, then he might not feel so lonely in this place. Before he ran out of earshot, though, he paused, looking back over his shoulder.

“You seem a bit different than the others. You don’t bend over backwards in praise of that monster.” Can I think of you as an ally? The words caught in his throat. Asking something like that could get him killed, and then revived, whatever the consequences of that were.

Varoon shook his head. “My sister is dangerous, and we don’t always see eye to eye, but she’s not the worst person here. Whatever you do, keep a safe distance between yourself and our mother. She’s the real monster.”

Varoon started walking in the opposite direction, leaving Bazarath to organize a few more mental notes. Then, he put that matter behind him and ran off to meet Azza.