Knight's hell

The battlefield quieted as the last echoes of victory faded into the crisp evening air. The soldiers erupted into cheers, their voices ringing out in celebration of their hard-won triumph. Armor clanged as warriors clasped each other on the shoulders, their morale soaring high. Amid the jubilant chaos, Kieran strode across the field, his imposing figure softened slightly by his exhaustion.

From the distance, Seraphina approached on her white horse, her silver hair glowing faintly under the sunlight. She halted in front of him, her piercing emerald eyes locking onto his. "Kieran," she said, her voice calm but laced with a hint of authority.

"Seraphina," Kieran replied, his tone gruff but respectful.

Seraphina tilted her head slightly and added, "Meet me in my camp. We need to talk." Without waiting for his response, she turned her horse and rode away, her presence commanding attention even in departure.

The soldiers around Kieran began to murmur, and one let out a teasing whistle. "Ooooh, looks like Kieran's got himself a girlfriend!" another soldier jested, his tone playful.

Kieran's face flushed crimson, and he clenched his fists, glaring at the group. "SHUT UP!" he barked, his voice like a thunderclap that scattered their laughter. Though their grins remained, they wisely refrained from any further comments.

Later, Kieran stood at the entrance of Seraphina's camp, his brows furrowed in confusion and irritation. He pushed aside the heavy tent flap and stepped in. Seraphina was seated on a carved wooden chair, her regal demeanor accentuated by the faint glow of the lanterns around her. She looked up as he entered, her expression calm but unreadable.

"What do you want, Seraphina?" Kieran asked bluntly, crossing his arms over his chest.

She rose gracefully, her movements deliberate, and took a step closer to him. "Why didn't you obey my orders?" she asked, her voice sharp and cutting through the stillness.

Kieran's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"You ignored my strategy," she said, her tone firm. "Charging after Ashren while the rest of us fought to secure the battlefield. Your recklessness could've cost us everything. Do you think this is some personal vendetta?"

Kieran bristled, his voice rising. "You think I don't know what's at stake? I saw an opening, and I took it. I don't need anyone telling me how to swing my axe!"

"This isn't just about you!" Seraphina snapped, stepping closer. Her emerald eyes burned with intensity. "You're part of something bigger than your own grudge. Your strength is an asset, but only if you use it wisely. If you can't follow orders, you're a liability."

For a moment, the air in the tent was thick with tension. Kieran's fists clenched, and his jaw tightened, but he didn't reply immediately. Finally, he exhaled, his shoulders dropping slightly. "I don't take orders easily," he admitted, his voice quieter. "But don't mistake that for not caring. I'll do what it takes to win. Even if it's not your way."

Seraphina regarded him carefully, her sharp expression softening ever so slightly. "Then prove it," she said. "Work with us, not against us. Ashren isn't a foe you can take down alone. If we're to win this war, we need to stand united. Even you, Kieran."

He held her gaze, the fire in her words stirring something deep within him. After a long pause, he gave a small nod. "Fine. But don't think for a second I'm just another soldier under your command."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Seraphina said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

Kieran turned to leave, pausing briefly at the tent's entrance. "For the record, they're wrong," he muttered.

"About what?" Seraphina asked, raising an eyebrow.

Kieran glanced back, his face tinged with a faint blush. "You're not my girlfriend." Before she could respond, he stepped out, the flap falling closed behind him.

Alone in the tent, Seraphina shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "Foolish orc," she muttered softly. Kieran sat heavily near a water bucket, the weight of the battle still pressing on his broad shoulders. His metal left arm—a piece of craftsmanship that seemed more tool than limb—was caked in blood and soot. The intricate etchings along the steel surface, once gleaming, were dulled by the grime of combat. With a weary sigh, he reached into the bucket, the cool water rippling as he submerged a rag.

He scrubbed the arm methodically, his green hand firm against the cloth as he worked to clean away the evidence of the carnage. The water in the bucket quickly darkened, reflecting a muddied image of his scarred face. He paused for a moment, staring at the distorted reflection. His jagged scar stretched across his brow and down his cheek—a permanent reminder of his violent past and the expectations that came with it.

His pointed ears caught snippets of the soldiers' conversations nearby. Some laughed and shared stories of the battle, voices tinged with relief. Others sharpened their blades or mended their armor, their movements steady and purposeful. The humans and elves mingled easily, their camaraderie evident. Kieran watched them from the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable.

Not a single orc among them.

The thought gnawed at him, as it always did. He had known this when he joined the Protectors, yet the sight of his lone, green-skinned form among their pale and fair features made the truth sting anew. Orcs were not a part of this world. They were the monsters to be slain, the barbarians in the tales told to frighten children. And here he was, trying to fight alongside those who'd likely viewed his kind as nothing more than brutish savages.

His fingers tightened around the rag, the metal of his prosthetic creaking softly. Why am I even here? The question had haunted him since the day he joined. The answer always remained the same, though it was no less comforting.

To prove them wrong.

Kieran's tusks shifted slightly as his jaw tightened. He hadn't come to the Protectors out of loyalty or some grand sense of justice. He didn't care for their oaths or their lofty ideals. He had joined because he wanted to show them—show everyone—that orcs were more than what the world believed.

He scrubbed harder at the arm, the rag catching on the grooves and joints of the metal. His reflection in the water rippled and distorted with each movement. We're not all mindless beasts. The thought burned in his mind, almost as if he were daring the soldiers around him to challenge it. He wanted them to see that he could strategize as well as they could, fight as fiercely, lead if need be.

But no matter how many battles he fought, no matter how many victories he secured, the whispers always lingered. The wary glances, the hesitation to trust his judgment—it was always there, just beneath the surface. He saw it in their eyes, even in the midst of their shared victories.

He returned his focus to his arm, the cloth in his hand moving with a newfound intensity. The metal gleamed faintly in the moonlight, the etchings beginning to show through the grime. This arm, like the rest of him, was a testament to survival. The battles he'd fought, the hardships he'd endured—it was all there, written in scars and steel.

But was it enough?

Kieran leaned back slightly, his eyes drifting to the soldiers once more. They were humans and elves, beings with long histories of heroism and unity. They fought with the weight of tradition behind them, the assurance that they belonged here. Kieran, by contrast, was a symbol of everything their stories told them to fear.

I'll show them, he thought, his grip on the cloth relaxing slightly. I'll show them that an orc can stand among them. That we're not what they think.

But deep down, a small voice whispered the question he dared not confront: Will they ever truly see me? The camp buzzed with activity as the horn echoed across the rolling fields. Soldiers turned their heads, the sound cutting through the crisp morning air like a clarion call. At the edge of the camp, a contingent of riders appeared, their armor gleaming under the bright sun. Leading them was a figure of commanding presence: Calvin, the Architect.

His sleek black chest plate caught the light, the golden patterns etched into the metal reflecting a brilliance that seemed to draw every eye. His cape billowed gently behind him as his horse trotted into the camp, the golden emblem of the Protectors visible even from a distance. His piercing blue eyes scanned the gathered soldiers with an air of wisdom and command, taking in the aftermath of the battle.

Seraphina, mounted on her own steed, broke away from the line of soldiers and made her way toward Calvin. Her silver hair shimmered in the daylight, the delicate braids framing her face catching the morning light. She dismounted gracefully as she approached him, her emerald-green eyes warm but serious.

"Calvin," she called, her voice carrying just enough authority to match her celestial presence. "I'm glad you're back. We need to talk about—"

She didn't finish her sentence before Kieran, standing a short distance away, stiffened. His sharp hearing caught the tone in her voice—a mixture of concern and frustration—and he knew exactly who the subject of her conversation would be. Him.

Here we go again, he thought, his jaw tightening. He could already imagine the words forming on her lips: his recklessness, his refusal to follow orders, the way his presence unsettled some of the soldiers.

He glanced down at his metal arm, still wet from the water he'd used to clean it. With a sigh, he stood and began striding toward them, his heavy boots crunching against the dirt. He didn't bother hiding the scowl that had formed on his face.

By the time he reached them, Seraphina had dismounted, and Calvin was already listening intently, his sharp gaze flicking briefly to Kieran before returning to her.

"Kieran," Calvin acknowledged curtly as the orc approached.

"What's this about?" Kieran demanded, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His towering frame cast a shadow over both Seraphina and Calvin, though neither seemed fazed by it.

Seraphina turned to him, her expression carefully composed. "I was about to discuss your performance in the field," she said evenly.

"My performance?" Kieran barked, his tusks jutting slightly as he spoke. "You mean the part where I fought your battle while half the soldiers stood back and watched?"

Seraphina's eyes narrowed, but her tone remained calm. "You disobeyed my orders, Kieran. Again. This isn't just about the battle—it's about the example you're setting."

Kieran snorted, the sound low and guttural. "An example? To who? The humans and elves who'd rather I wasn't here in the first place?"

Calvin raised a hand, cutting off Seraphina's reply. "Enough," he said, his voice carrying a weight of authority that immediately silenced them both. He turned to Kieran, his blue eyes locking onto the orc's emerald ones.

"Kieran," he said, his tone measured but firm, "you're here for a reason. And whether you believe it or not, your actions matter. Not just for you, but for everyone in this camp."

Kieran's scowl deepened, but he said nothing, his fists clenching at his sides.

"And you," Calvin said, turning to Seraphina, "should know better than to undermine one of your own in front of the others. Whatever concerns you have, they can wait until we're behind closed doors."

Seraphina's expression softened slightly, though her posture remained rigid. "Understood," she said quietly.

Calvin looked back at Kieran, his gaze softening just enough to suggest he wasn't entirely unsympathetic. "Take some time to cool off," he said. "We'll discuss this further later."

Without another word, Calvin turned and strode toward the command tent, his cape trailing behind him like a shadow. Seraphina hesitated for a moment before following, leaving Kieran standing alone in the middle of the bustling camp.

He sighed heavily and turned back toward the water bucket. The soldiers' eyes followed him, some with curiosity, others with wariness. He ignored them, his mind churning with frustration.

I don't need their approval, he told himself. But even as the thought echoed in his mind, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever truly believe it.