Page 2 of Scoring the Orc
Mara and Sari join me in silence, the only sounds are our synchronized cleaning and the occasional soft thud of a dish towel being picked up or laid down. We move around each other in a well-rehearsed dance, each knowing her place, each too absorbed in her thoughts to speak. The fear of Aleryn's unpredictable wrath casts long shadows even in his absence.
I scrub the plates vigorously, my hands moving mechanically. Each scrub is a stroke of forced forgetfulness, each rinse a momentary purge of the fear that knots in my stomach. I’m no stranger to his moods, having witnessed the spectrum of his temper, from icy disdain to explosive anger. Yet, dreading them never makes them easier to endure.
Beside me, Mara drops a spoon, and it clatters loudly against the stone floor. She flinches visibly, a swift glance towards the door betraying her fear that the noise might summon him back. I place a reassuring hand on her shoulder for a brief moment, offering a silent solidarity that we all feel but seldom voice.
"Better be quick, girls," Sari whispers, her voice low, almost blending with the bubbling of the pot on the stove. "He might want more before he leaves for practice."
Her words spur us into quicker action, our hands moving faster, our feet shuffling silently across the kitchen floor. It’s a meticulous process, cleaning up after Aleryn, as if erasing any trace of his presence could somehow protect us from his caprice.
As I wipe down the table, I can’t help but feel the oppressive weight of the mansion around us.The fear of his cruelty emerging without warning, like a storm on the horizon, keeps us perpetually on edge, ever watchful, forever cautious.
Our morning ritual of tension and silence concludes with the kitchen restored to its pristine state. We exchange looks that say more than words could, each of us retreating into our tasks, the dread for the next outburst simmering beneath the calm surface.
The day stretches long and thin, like a shadow at dusk, each hour seeming to linger longer than the last. We move through the sprawling mansion, dusting the ornate carvings and polishing the vast array of statues that gleam under the chandeliers' soft light. The mansion, with its high ceilings and long, echoing hallways, feels more like a mausoleum than a home. Its beauty, undeniable yet stark, mirrors Aleryn’s own cold elegance.
As I run a cloth over the rich wood of the library shelves, I steal glances at the vast windows that offer views of the manicured grounds. The outside world seems both tantalizingly close and impossibly far, a realm of freedom we can see but not touch.
Lila, who tends to the plants, quietly trims the indoor hedges, snipping the only sound in the otherwise silent room.
"Keep it down," I whisper, half-joking, half-serious, as her shears softly clip another overgrown frond. She gives me a small smile, a fleeting moment of camaraderie in our shared servitude.
The dynamic in the mansion is as meticulously arranged as the furniture. We, the human women, exist in a perpetual state of heightened alertness, always wary of Aleryn’s unpredictable moods. His footsteps—sharp, commanding—can sometimes be heard echoing off the floors. When he appears, it’s as if a shadow passes over the sun, chilling the air and darkening the day.
We are his trophies, living proof of his victories and prowess in the brutal sport of zyrphix. He flaunts us as one might display fine art—prized but inert, valued yet utterly controlled. The mistreatment varies, from neglect to outright cruelty, depending on his whims and the outcome of his latest match or practice session.
Today, as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting long gold beams through the stained glass, we gather in the kitchen, a quiet sense of urgency among us. Aleryn is due back from his day's training, and the air tightens with anxiety.
"We need everything perfect," Sari hisses as she double-checks every dish on the dinner table. The silverware is aligned with precision, the glasses sparkling under the flickering light of the candles.
The door slams somewhere in the distance, and instinctively, we stiffen, our bodies and minds preparing for the storm that might follow. Each return is a test, and each evening is an ordeal, the dread of his displeasure hanging over us like a dark cloud.
We move silently back to our quarters, the mansion’s oppressive magnificence a gilded cage. Here, beauty masks the brutality of our existence, a poignant reminder of everything visible and invisible that confines us.
2
JURTO
Gritting my teeth, I brace myself as I storm through my wall of obstacles. My teammates, serving as my practice opponents, throw their all at me. They grasp and claw at my arms, toss their bodies at my legs, and do everything they can to wrestle me to the ground.
Still, that does nothing to deter me. I shove them off with a loud groan. I ram my head into their chests, knocking the wind from their lungs.
“Shit!” Kyleb exclaims, slamming to the ground. “Jurto, I’m no use to the team if my ribs are broken!”
An excited laugh escapes me as I sprint to the other side of the field, the ball tucked underneath my arm. In my peripheral vision, Hrogun narrows in on me and tries to wrestle the ball from my grasp, but I spin out of his reach and leave him spiraling to the ground.
"You'll have to do better than that!" I bellow with glee, my voice booming across the field as I leap up and slam the ball through the elevated training goal. The net quivers with the impact, the sound a triumphant echo across our practice field. As I land back on the turf with a solid thud, my teammates rush toward me, their massive, shirtless forms slick with sweat under the relentless sun.
"Jurto! You're unstoppable!" Borka slaps my back with a force that would stagger a lesser being, his tusks gleaming in a proud grin.
"Every practice, you guys push me harder!" I shout back, the rush of our game fueling my spirit. We stomp over to the benches, our muscles flexing and shining, the ache in them a testament to our hard work. I grab a water skin, the cool water soothing my scorched throat as I gulp it down eagerly.
We collapse onto the wooden benches, feeling every bit of our exertion but reveling in it. Hrogun, his chest heaving with deep breaths, drops beside me with a grunt, his huge frame sprawling over the space.
"You nearly had it today, Hrogun," I quip, nudging him with an elbow.
"Next time, Jurto, I'm snagging the victory!" he retorts with a playful snarl, his eyes gleaming with the promise of a tough rematch.
Kraag, his body lined with the scars of many games, stretches out, his gaze sweeping over us with both pride and tactical assessment. "You young ones keep speeding up. Makes an old player like me stay sharp."