Page 1 of Scoring the Orc
1
EMILIA
Asmall sliver of sunlight pierces through the thin curtains of the room. I can hear Delia and Fatima whispering amongst themselves on the other side of the room, brushing their hair with makeshift combs and using a spoon for a mirror.
As much as I want to stay in bed a little while longer, I can’t.
Even from here, Aleryn’s furious screams echo through the mansion. Delia and Fatima flinch violently, while I jump out of bed and start getting ready for the day.
“Gods, he’s in a mood today,” Delia mumbles.
“He’ll take it out on one of us,” Fatima says, a hint of bitterness to her tone. “It’s become a pattern at this point. Whenever practice goes bad for Master Aleryn, he makes sure everyone knows it the next day.”
Sighing, I dress myself in simple, loose clothing and make my way out of our shared bedroom.
Creeping gingerly down the creaking wooden staircase, I keep my head low, an instinct honed from too many unpredictable mornings. The harsh cadence of Aleryn's voice grows louder and more distinct with each step I take. He's already seated at the long, roughly hewn dining table that dominates the room, his dark silhouette framed against the morning light streaming in from the tall windows.
His voice crackles with impatience, a sharp contrast to the hushed whispers of Delia and Fatima that still linger in my ears.
"Faster, you fools! Do you want me to starve before today's practice?" he barks, his words slicing through the tense air.
I hold my breath as I enter the kitchen, where the scent of freshly baked pastries mingles with the sharp tang of fear. The other women, their faces tight with anxiety, are hurriedly arranging platters of food. I quickly join them, my hands trembling slightly as I help pile thick slices of bread next to hunks of cheese and cold cuts of meat.
Together, we move as one, a silent, synchronized group making our way to the tyrant's table. I carefully set down the platter in front of Aleryn, my movements deliberate, trying not to draw attention. His piercing eyes scan the spread before him, and for a moment, I fear the breakfast might not meet his exacting standards.
Aleryn is a formidable figure, renowned not just for his cruelty but for his prowess in the zyrphix arena. As a popular dark elf player, he amassed fame and fortune, and unfortunately, slaves—us, human women—won from many brutal matches. Each victory at the game adds not just to his wealth but also to his collection of lives he controls.
I retreat a few steps and lower my gaze, waiting for the storm to pass, hoping today I am invisible in his eyes.
Please, let this be enough for him. My hands tighten into fists behind me. A sinking feeling forms in my stomach.
Aleryn glares at the spread before him, his scowl deepening.
"This is what you've got for me?" he snarls, his voice a low growl. "I'm training all day with the team," he grumbles, eyeing the food with disdain. "So don’t serve me shit that’ll mess with my game.”
Despite his complaints, he starts eating with a voracity that speaks of long hours of physical exertion to come. His hands almost blur as they move from plate to mouth, tearing into the bread and meat with equal ferocity.
Beside me, Mara, a slight woman with hands perpetually stained from kitchen work, whispers nervously. "I thought it would be enough."
Her eyes are wide with the fear of retribution. Next to her, Sari, older and more seasoned, merely shakes her head, her expression one of resigned frustration. "Never enough for the likes of him," she mutters under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear.
I nod slightly, acknowledging the truth in Sari's words. We've all learned the hard way that what pleases Aleryn one day might set him off the next. It’s a precarious balance, trying to meet his unpredictable standards.
As Aleryn devours the meal, I can’t help but notice the mechanical nature of his eating. There’s no enjoyment, only necessity. He's fueling up, like he's stoking the fires of a furnace, preparing for the brutal day ahead. Every so often, he pauses to shoot a glare across the table, as if daring us to comment or complain.
The room is thick with tension, each of us holding our breath, praying we escape his notice. I keep my eyes downcast, focusing on the worn wood of the floorboards, counting them silently to distract myself from the heavy atmosphere.
He keeps us here for the duration of his meal, torturing us with the lavish meal while we stand with empty stomachs. Beside me, someone’s stomach growls loudly. I wince, trying to ignore the hunger pains.
With a loud belch and a slam on the table, Aleryn finishes the last of his meal. I suck in a breath, waiting for him to complain about the quality of the meats or the taste of the bread. Gods, he once whipped a girl because he thought the bread was too stale that morning.
I grimace, remembering that moment.
Finally, with a grunt, Aleryn pushes away from the table, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. "Keep it better tomorrow," he commands, a vague threat lingering in his tone as he strides out of the room, leaving a wake of palpable relief behind him.
We exhale in unison, the threat momentarily passed, but the anxiety of anticipation for tomorrow is already beginning to build.
As soon as Aleryn's imposing figure disappears through the doorway, a collective sigh of subdued relief ripples through the kitchen. Yet, the tension doesn't fully dissipate; it lingers in the air like the faint smoke from the extinguished candles on the breakfast table. I begin gathering the dishes, my movements automatic, the clink and clatter of the plates a familiar, grounding sound in the charged silence.