Astar, exhausted, drifted into a deep sleep. The bearskins, rough against his delicate skin, felt surprisingly comforting, a kind of harsh caress against his nakedness. The cave, still cold and damp, became a fleeting image in his mind, replaced by the warm, familiar embrace of remembered luxury.

He dreamed of silks, soft as cobwebs, whispering against his limbs and crevices. He dreamed of grand halls, shimmering with candlelight, where musicians played lilting melodies. He smelled roses, fresh and intoxicating, their fragrance stealing through the halls, clinging to his robes, a constant reminder of his pampered existence.

He dreamed he sat at a magnificent table, laden with glittering delicacies. Jewels winked in the candlelight, reflected in the ruby-red wine sloshing in his golden goblet. He ate glistening quail, sweet cakes dusted with sugar, and plump, juicy grapes bursting with flavor. He tasted each morsel with meticulous attention, savoring the exquisite textures and the rich, decadent flavors.

Nothing was ever lacking in his world.

He was always warm, always fed, always clothed in the finest fabrics. Every need fulfilled, every desire granted.

He was surrounded by people adoring his beauty – his grace, a perfect echo of his mother’s. He was going to be the husband of a fine woman, Neora, and would be the father of proud, wise, benevolent royals.

A smile touched his lips in his dream, a warmth spreading through him as he felt the soft hands of his brother, his father, his wife, and even his future children, gently stroking his arms.

Astar awoke with a gasp, the remnants of the sweet dream clinging to him. His throat felt like sandpaper, his tongue swollen and parched. Hunger gnawed at his belly, but the thirst was overwhelming, a fire consuming him from the inside.

Urhl was nowhere to be seen. He remembered the giant orc’s words, cruel and dismissive: "Prisoners don’t ask. They don't demand. They don’t have the right." Astar swallowed hard, the effort making his dry throat ache even more. He couldn't ask. But he needed something, anything, to quench his thirst.

He dragged himself to his feet, wincing in pain as he shifted the weight of the heavy bearskin on his shoulders.

There had been the faintest murmur of water trickling somewhere, a sound easily lost in the vastness of the cave. Astar remembered hearing about water seeping from the walls in some caves.

Darkness became Astar’s sole companion, heavy and suffocating. Like the first time he wandered in the hellish place, he moved forward, cautiously, his bare feet finding purchase on the uneven rock floor, risking a serious injury. For hours, time lost all meaning, he navigated the maze of tunnels guided only by instinct.

At first, Astar stumbled. He bumped into unseen walls, his hands catching on rough crevices, the bearskin snagging on jagged edges. But slowly, his body learned.

His eyes, unused to such darkness, fought to adjust, they seemed to see more. Or perhaps it wasn’t sight, but the echo of faint impressions, so he felt like a bat and chuckled.

Finally, just before his legs buckled and a wave of crushing exhaustion threatened to pull him down, he found it.

A small, shimmering spark, a watery reflection in the darkness.

Astar shambled toward it, crawling on his knees, his breaths ragged and desperate. The gleam grew, revealed itself as clear water, trickling down from a fissure in the obsidian.

Without hesitation, Astar bent his head, his parched tongue lapping at the liquid, savoring the cool moisture, the sharp, clean taste.

Once his fatal thirst was quenched, giving him some hours of life, the mental breakdown began.

Astar realized with a sickening clarity that there was no salvation for him. The Orc, in his brutal way, had made this clear. Astar held no value. He was a nobody, a trinket lost in the vastness, a second prince, not like his brother. Astar would be missed, but soon forgotten.

He had once thought he was beloved, surrounded by those who cherished his existence. Now, all he felt was the gnawing emptiness of being forsaken by his gods. The echoes of his sobs resonated within the caverns.

Had his life only been a gilded lie?

His mind, starved for sustenance, conjured visions of doom and falseness. The whispers of court ladies, praising his elegance, sounded like mocking laughter. The possibility of rescue became a flicker, then a dying ember.

How could anyone find him? This was a labyrinth of obsidian, a subterranean maze with no hint of passage leading back to the sunlit world.

Even if someone searched, knew to venture into the fetid embrace of the Land of Darkness, Astar knew he would be beyond reach.

Astar nestled deeper into the embrace of the bearskin, a fitting shroud for his fading hopes. He was utterly alone.

What purpose did it serve to exist in such a place? To be at the mercy of a killer monster, stripped of everything that had defined him - his freedom, his family, his very identity.

The encounter with the orcs, their crude savagery, had shattered any illusions of refinement he might have held. This world of his was a lie.

Astar closed his eyes.

He pictured the faces of his people – the servants who had fawned over him, the courtiers who had vied for his attention, his father, face etched with worry and disappointment. Would they mourn him?

They would remember him as the pretty boy, the delicate prince, the one who never quite lived up to expectations.

What was the point?

It seemed simpler, somehow, to just let go. To surrender to the darkness.

Lost in his despair, Astar’s breaths grew shallow, his body becoming limp with resignation. His eyes fluttered closed. Maybe nothing mattered anymore. Maybe tomorrow would never come.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

***

Sweat slicked Urhl's broad chest, beads tracing paths through the grime coating his skin. His muscles, honed by countless hours of brutal training, ached pleasantly.

He lumbered towards the communal area, his heavy boots thudding against the packed earth. Laughter echoed from within, punctuated by the clang of metal on metal.

N'hoor emerged from the throng, her black eyes gleaming with amusement. Her dark hair, braided with beads, swung rhythmically as she moved.

"Urhl, you fought well today," she purred, stepping closer, her voice husky and throaty.

"Hn," Urhl grunted, wiping sweat from his brow.

N'hoor's gaze lingered on his scarred arms, tracing the lines etched by countless battles.

"I have a proposition for you, Urhl," she said, leaning closer, her breath warm against his cheek.

Urhl raised an eyebrow, intrigued. N'hoor rarely asked for anything. Her desires, usually, manifested as demands.

"Speak," he rumbled.

"I'm bored," she confessed. "I'm tired of the usual targets. I want something…different. Something challenging."

Her gaze drifted towards a place in the distance.

"That human thing you got," she murmured, a sly smile curving her lips.

"I want him. Running on the ground. Perfect for arrow practice. Imagine, Urhl, the thrill of seeing those delicate limbs twitch, hearing those pathetic cries. Wouldn't that be delicious?"

"Hn," he growled, turning away.

Urhl ignored her, leaving N'hoor standing alone, smiling.

***

Firelight danced in the eyes of the orcs, their guttural laughter echoing through the place. A feast sprawled before them, a testament to their work of pillaging and stealing and killing, mountains of silver, gold, and enough food to feed the entire clan for weeks. It had been a good month. Urhl sat at the center of it all, a king among warriors, his massive frame dwarfed only by the piles of raw meat beside him.

He gnawed on a rib, ripping chunks of flesh from bone with primal ease. Wine, stolen from Astar’s carriages, slopped down his chest, mingling with the greasy remnants of his meal. The taste of victory, metallic and sweet, lingered on his tongue.

“He’s probably dead already, the little prince” a gruff voice rumbled from beside him.

Urhl glanced sideways at Mogash, one of his closest companions. Mogash, a mountain of muscle with a scar that raked across his face, taking half of his nose, had raised a cup of fermented berry juice.

“Humans ain’t like us,” Mogash continued, chuckling. “Need to eat every few hours, they do. Can’t go long without water, either.” He slammed his cup onto the ground, the liquid splattering across the dirt floor.

Urhl paused, the realization hitting him. A human…could die…of hunger and thirst in days, not months, like orcs.

Without a word, Urhl threw the rest of his rib onto a growing pile of discarded bones and lurched to his feet. He grabbed a rough leather sack from a nearby pile and strode towards the labyrinthine passages leading to the depths of his cave.

Urhl didn't know why he wondered if the little prince was still alive. It wasn't like he had any use for a fragile thing like Astar. Taking Astar had the same importance of catching a firefly to keep it in a jar, watching it struggle until id died or until it was forgotten. Orcs valued strength, cunning, and ruthlessness, not that. Yet, the thought of the worthless prince collapsing, cold and lifeless in his caves, nagged at the back of his mind.

He reached the chamber where he left the fallen prince for the last time. But Astar wasn't there, curled up on his improvised bed of bearskins. The scent, delicate as a flower, yet surprisingly persistent, lingered in the air. Urhl sniffed, catching the trail of the human.

Following that scent, a mixture of fear, sweat, and a hint of that floral perfume, Urhl trekked through the twisting labyrinthine passages of his caves. He navigated effortlessly, his senses alert, guided by the faint but distinctive aroma.

He found Astar several kilometers away in a smaller chamber, its walls damp and glistening with water. Astar sat huddled against the coolness of the rock, his elegant form hunched, his delicate features sculpted with exhaustion.

Urhl stopped at the entrance, his shadow falling long and harsh across the chamber floor. Astar did not look up.

Urhl snorted, hefting a rather large, headless serpent in one hand. He tossed it towards Astar, watching with a hint of amusement as it landed at the prince's feet.

Astar awakened from his reveries and stared at the offering, a silent refusal etched on his face. The delicate man didn’t flinch even as the snake slithered, tail twitching.

“Why am I still alive?” asked the fallen prince, in a soft but clear voice, looking at the headless serpent.

Urhl blinked, his brow furrowed.

A stupid question.

What kind of creature asks why they're not dead yet? Orcs, especially those facing death, craved for life. A long life, as long as possible. All the creatures of this earth begged, pleaded, for their life.

This…thing, this prince, seemed unaware of that.

“A disgraced prisoner wouldn’t waste breath asking questions,” Urhl growled, getting close to the prince. Urhl, enraged, snatched up the snake and, in one swift movement, shoved the headless serpent toward the prince's face.

"Eat!"

Astar flinched, finally seeking eye contact, but when he looked up, his expression was cold. His gaze then lingered on Urhl’s grotesque offering, and a flicker of disgust and anger crossed his face.

"No."

Astar spat, a thick glob of saliva landing squarely on Urhl’s cheek.

Any other creature, be a human or be an orc, would have his skull crushed at that same instant, but somehow, Astar would live to tell the story.

“Monster!” Astar yelled, spitting venom, a cascade of insults erupting from the formerly sweet, scared, polite little prince. "Fiend! Beast from hell! I curse your rotten soul!"

"Orcs do not have a soul!" Urhl roared, swatting at the prince, rage boiling within him.

Astar shrank back, yet didn't flinch from Urhl’s fury. He stared into Urhl's eyes, and for the first time, Urhl saw something there besides fear and sadness.

There was defiance.

A cold, steely resolve.

“Kill me, beast," Astar challenged, his voice surprisingly steady. "Put an end to my suffering."

"I told you, prisoners do not ask for things!"

Rage, a familiar heat, flooded Urhl’s veins. It wasn't fear evoking this anger, not like the whimpering pathetic creatures he’d faced in battle. This was different. It was a poison, seeping into his thick skull, making his thoughts slow and his fists clench. Astar, this irritating, delicate creature, dared challenge him, dared insult him, dared demand...a death sentence?

Urhl didn't want to understand. Understanding wasn't necessary. He grabbed Astar, his grip tight, the prince yelping as the bearskin slipped away, leaving him exposed and vulnerable in the dark cavern. Cursing in a guttural growl, Urhl hoisted Astar onto his shoulder, the prince twisting and thrashing uselessly, cursing at the horrible orc from hell.

"Silence!" Urhl roared, his deep voice echoing off the obsidian walls. With Astar’s struggling body draped over his shoulder like a limp puppet, he stalked through the labyrinthine passages.

He didn’t bother to filter Astar's cries, mixed with enraged shrieks and desperate pleas, as he strode back towards another chamber.

Astar’s insults continued unabated, but Urhl merely tightened his grip, the prince finally succumbing to exhaustion. He slammed Astar down onto a thick bearskin in the corner, the prince collapsing in a heap of shivering limbs.

With a final disgusted grunt, Urhl tossed the headless serpent beside the nude prince.

"Eat," he commanded. "Now. And if you don't…"

A death threat would not work with this strange creature, so what then?

He left the chamber, absorbing the sounds of Astar's sobs, but totally ignoring them.

"Apparently, he doesn't like snakes."

Urhl emerged from the caves to the surface.

He paused, feeling the strange tightness in his chest. It was unlike the familiar tightness of impending battle, the tightening that came with the thrill of the hunt, the exhilarating rush of victory.

His hand instinctively went to the scarring on his chest, roughened from countless battles, his fingers tracing the outline of a jagged wound. He remembered the searing pain, the satisfying crunch of bone under his fists, the primal roar echoing through the battlefield. This…this wasn’t like that.

Urhl growled, frustrated. The memory of the prince’s tear-stained face, of his fragile frame trembling under his grip.

He had pried the chattering teeth from the mouth of countless foes, had ripped limbs from powerful beasts, had carved his mark on a thousand battlefields. And yet, this man, this seemingly delicate, utterly useless prisoner, unnerved him.

The giant orc walked away, the echoes of the prince’s sobs in his brain, and went out to hunt.