I love how my time in Alvione continues to introduce new possible ways for me to die. That’s what I’m thinking as the orc reaches in and grabs me and Martin and hauls us out of the stagecoach with shocking delicacy.

Outside, another orc is holding the stagecoach horses in place by their reins while they prance nervously, and the coachman and guards are nowhere in sight. Neither are the guards’ horses—though if they fled after their riders were lifted from their backs and dragged off to be cooked into a stew (I mean, who fucking knows), I sure as hell don’t blame them. There are a few other orcs milling around, all in equally tattered leathers, all different shades, from pale green to gravelly brown, and I feel as though I’ve stumbled upon some horrific Shrek lookalike contest.

Martin doesn’t teleport us—why the hell isn’t he teleporting us?—and then we are separated, one in each of the orc’s big hands as he lifts us up by the back of our clothes like we are cats being grabbed by the scruff. I hang there limply, feeling the sway of my body and an overwhelming sense of defeat. Because what am I going to do? Fight this guy? Yeah, hell no to that. I know a losing fight when I see one.

As I look around, dazed, the cool summer night breeze sends a whiff of the orc my way. He smells of sweat, spice, rot, and I wonder for a moment if they do eat humans. Probably not, right?

Then I glance over at Martin, who appears to be deep in thought as he also hangs there like a ragdoll. When he notices me staring at him expectantly, he gives me a weak, reassuring smile and turns his face up to the orc, some silvery strands of hair falling into his eyes.

“Can we help you?” he asks stiffly, his voice polite despite the tension that makes it come out a bit deadpan. So he thinks we can reason with them?

The orc tilts his head at Martin. “Are you human?”

Martin blinks. “In a sense…”

Shit. From the narrowing of the orc’s eyes, I’m guessing that’s the wrong answer.

“Then no.”

He swings Martin around suddenly, throwing him over his shoulder especially hard, and when Martin unceremoniously bonks his head on the orc’s bony shoulder with a loud crack, he falls limp.

“Fragile,” the orc says, sounding almost disappointed.

My heart drops. No no no . . . “Martin? Martin! Say something, dude. Move your hand—do something!”

Martin does nothing, just lays there silently across the orc’s shoulder.

“Fuck!” He’s not dead, is he? There’s no way, right? Then I see it, thankfully—the slightest movement of his chest, which tells me he is still breathing. It’s almost imperceptible, but it’s there. He’s not dead. But still, I have to get him help. I have to do something.

Why did that idiot not teleport us!?

I’m not a fighter, and even if I was, I don’t think I could defeat one orc, let alone a whole group of them. So I start to panic, as any person might. My eyes fill with frantic tears, and I hear someone babbling (it’s me; I’m babbling), but then the orc holds me out in front of him and frowns. “You’re too loud,” he says.

So I fall silent. I stare at him, and he stares at me. I feel a few hot tears fall from my cheeks, but still I cannot look away. His brown eyes are so big. No, it’s his whole face and body that’s big. He’s built like a tank too, all muscle and weight and bone, though his piercing gaze suggests a depth of intelligence that doesn’t match his clunky form.

My brain moves a mile a minute. If I can’t fight him, I have to convince him to let me and Martin go. What do people do in movies when they get kidnapped? Like, build rapport with the kidnapper right? So they don’t want to kill you and eat you and holy fuck I’m actually so fucked right now and I’m going to die and Martin’s going to die and it’s all going to be my fault and—

“What’s your name?” I gasp out. Then I smile, trying to look as friendly as possible. My bottom lip quivers. “I’m Rose.” Don’t accidentally knock me out too. Please!

The orc’s expression is mostly hard to read at first, but then he squints at me, which doesn’t feel great. “Jacques,” he says.

Jacques? I almost laugh, my panic becoming something, well, manic. These orcs are . . . French? No, what am I thinking? Of course they’re not French. France doesn’t exist here.

“Great name,” I say stupidly.

His frown deepens, his eyes locking onto mine. “It is okay.”

For a moment, we just stare at each other again in total silence.

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Shit. I’m bombing. Say something interesting.

“Are there any girl orcs?”

1. WHAT? I’m stupid. What kind of question is that? But I can’t think of anything, my mind suddenly blanking out completely, and this is all I’ve got.

Jacques huffs in annoyance, lowering me onto the ground, which sends a thrill through my wobbly legs. Run! my brain screams at me. But I don’t run. I just stand there, still as stone. Jacques lets go of the back of my clothes, only to then maintain a firm and uncomfortable grip on my shoulder. And now I can’t run. Stupid! “Humans,” he grunts, mostly to himself it seems. “You know nothing. No girl orcs. No boy orcs. Only orcs.”

“Oh,” I squeak, squirming under Jacques’ gaze. “So then, you’re all just they-them?”

Oh my god, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? That’s the first thing I can think to say?!

Jacques leans in, glaring openly now. “What?” I can smell their breath, and it’s horrible. Like fish and Fritos. Like a dog’s paw.

“I don’t know. I don’t know why I said that.”

“I am Jacques.”

“My bad, Jacques. You’re Jacques. Got it.”

“Talking a lot,” Jacques grumbles. Jacques turns to another orc behind Jacques and shouts, “This one is bothersome. Kill or release?”

Shit!

“Release!” I yelp. “Obviously release, right?”

The other orc looks at me, tilts their head. “Don’t care. Jacques decides.”

Great! Jacques decides! GREAT!

Just as it seems Jacques might be about to make a decision, I hear the sound of footsteps fast approaching. They aren’t the heavy thud of orc footfalls but something much lighter, and when I attempt to look around Jacques’ big hand to see who it is, I’m relieved to spot Leon and Peter jogging over, accompanied by their guards, whose bugged-out eyes make it look like they have all shit their pants. Leon’s sword is in hand and his jaw is clenched, and Peter has an irritated scowl plastered across his face, though none of Leon’s tension.

Jacques grows still at the sight of Leon’s sword, then lifts me back up like I’m some sort of human shield or offering, and Leon slows his pace. His eyes flick to Martin’s unconscious body draped across Jacques’ shoulder, and his expression darkens, but before he can say or do anything, Peter pats him on the shoulder, pulls him back a bit, and strides over to Jacques with a carefree swagger that does not suit our situation at all.

For a moment, I think this might have been Peter’s plan all along—but that wouldn’t make sense, would it? Would Peter really screw us like this? And so close to the castle?

But are these Peter’s orc friends?

I don’t have to wonder for much longer, because Peter calls out to Jacques in a vexed, low voice, “Where is Hinata?”

Hinata?

Jacques shrugs. “Dead.”

Peter comes to stop in front of Jacques, completely ignoring my presence as I hang by the back of my dress directly in front of him. He just looks around me at Jacques. “You killed Hinata?”

“We are no longer associated with War Chief Juan.”

I accept in this moment that orc names are extremely random and strangely culturally diverse. But there’s no time for that. The flash of concern on Peter’s face makes my heartbeat stutter nervously, and I have a feeling that negotiations aren’t going to be our way out of this. We’re going to have to fight, aren’t we?

Fuck fuck fuck. I’m not in a good position to do anything. I have no weapon, but even if I did, I wouldn’t know how to use it. I’ve shot a gun once before because, duh, America, but there are no guns here, and I don’t know if I have the arm strength necessary to lift a sword. All I have are my nails and teeth. People go for the eyes, right? Or the nose? My eyes flick over Jacques’ face. I don’t know how orc physiology works, how strong their bones or cartilage are, so if I go for anything, it has to be the eyes. But they’re so high up, so far away—and there’s no way I can reach them from here.

I’m going to have to bite Jacques’ hand, aren’t I?

“I see,” Peter says, the frown on his face growing by the second. “Who is your new leader?”

“No leader,” Jacques says. “A society of orc equals who stand against humanity.”

An orc in the back cheers, the sound loud and rumbling, almost like a roar. I start, and the guards with Leon and Peter jump nearly a foot in the air. My faith in their ability to win a fight against the orcs plummets. They’re trained! Why the hell are they scared?

“Ah,” Peter says. “And a society of lawless criminals it seems.” He motions to me, Martin, our stagecoach. “A highwayman, are you now?”

I shoot Peter a look that says, You’re antagonizing them?! But he ignores me completely. Leon’s hand visibly tenses around the hilt of his sword, and Peter places his hand on his own weapon.

I’m going to have to bite Jacques, I think again. I mentally prepare for what I have to do. I can’t just do nothing. I need to get free of Jacques’ grasp, then grab Martin and try to drag him away. I need to do something. I can’t be useless.

Jacques’ lip curls up in distaste. “It is humans who are the worst criminals of them all.”

Sociologically he might be on to something, but in this current moment, these are fighting words, and I know this will not end well.

“Why not release the two people you have taken? So we can be on our way without any trouble,” Peter says. I realize now that the other orcs are all watching this exchange go down, their bodies still and tense. Some have reached for their own weapons—huge axes and swords and clubs—and my imagination conjures up a fun image of a club raining down on me until I see nothing but red.

“Son of Paulo and Hae,” Jacques replies slowly, “you are powerless here among my people, who do not recognize titles and who do not bend to the whims of human royalty.”

Peter looks at me finally, his dark eyes piercing mine with an intensity that I can’t translate. I stare back at him, searching his gaze for answers. Does he want me to bite Jacques? Am I going to have to act on the intrusive thought that has been rattling around in my head for the last few minutes?

Is that it? Am I even ready to do something like that?

I’ve never bitten anyone before, at least not with the intent to hurt them.

Martin. I have to do it for Martin. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. Don’t be chicken shit! Bite his ass!

Then Peter begins to draw his sword, and I take that as my cue. I turn my head just enough to get a good angle on Jacques’ hand, and I bite down—hard.