{"id":261464,"date":"2026-07-13T18:22:54","date_gmt":"2026-07-13T15:22:54","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/1kitap1.com\/en\/given-to-the-orc-captain-raina-wilson\/"},"modified":"2026-07-13T18:22:54","modified_gmt":"2026-07-13T15:22:54","slug":"given-to-the-orc-captain-raina-wilson","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/1kitap1.com\/en\/given-to-the-orc-captain-raina-wilson\/","title":{"rendered":"Given To The Orc Captain – Raina Wilson"},"content":{"rendered":"
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I stopped on a tall man leading the lead mule. He wore a tattered wool coat and a bandage around his head. He looked like a wounded farmer. But he was wearing boots. Good boots. Magistrate-issue riding boots, scuffed with mud to look old, but the soles were thick. “I know him,” I breathed. “Who?”<\/p>\n

Ragor asked. “The farmer,” I said. “His name is Ralen. He’s a Lieutenant in the 4th Division. A demolition specialist.” I swung the glass to the cart behind him. A woman sat on the back, cradling an infant. I focused on her hands. They weren’t red and chapped from cold. They were gloved. And under the cloak, I saw the glint of steel.<\/p>\n

“The baby is a prop,” I said, lowering the glass. “Ragor, that’s not a caravan. It’s a Trojan Horse.” “Infiltrators?” Ragor\u2019s voice was a low growl. “Reinforcements,” I said. “The first wave failed. This is the second. Fifty trained saboteurs. Demolition experts. Assassins. They’re heading for the Pass to finish what the first group started.” Ragor looked at the caravan. Then he looked at me. “Are you sure?” “Boots don’t lie,” I said. “And refugees don’t grease their axles in a blizzard.<\/p>\n

They want to arrive at the gates silently just before dawn.” Ragor\u2019s face hardened. Usefulness versus compassion. The soldier versus the savior. If they were real refugees, attacking them would be a massacre. A war crime. If they were Infiltrators, letting them pass would be suicide. “Can you verify?” he asked. “Get me down there,” I said. “Close. I need to hear them.” *** We moved like ghosts. Ragor, myself, and ten of his best stalkers slid down the tree line, shadowing the caravan. We crouched in a thicket of snow-heavy pines, less than twenty yards from the road.<\/p>\n

The wind carried their voices. “…pace is sloppy,” a woman’s voice hissed. “Tighten up the gaps. We need to hit the gate at 0500.” “Keep your voice down,” the ‘farmer’ Ralen replied. “Sound carries.” “Stop whining,” the woman snapped. “Just make sure the detonators in the cart are dry. If the powder is wet, the General will skin us.”<\/p>\n

Detonators. I looked at Ragor. He had heard it too. His eyes were burning with a cold, yellow fire. He nodded to me. Confirmed. He pulled back, signaling the stalkers. Hand signs. Ambush formation. Encircle. No survivors. It was brutal. It was necessary. But as I drew my leaf-bladed sword, my hand trembled. These were my people. Or they had been. I had drunk in taverns with Ralen. I knew he had a sister in the capital.<\/p>\n

He is walking a cart full of bombs, I reminded myself. He made his choice. Ragor saw the tremble. He reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “Stay with me,” he whispered. “Do not engage Ralen.<\/p>\n

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I should\u2019ve died on that mountain. Frostbitten, half-conscious, and abandoned by the very spies I served, I was left to freeze while my team disappeared without a backward glance. Instead of death, I got dragged out of the snow by the orcs I was trained to fear. The Chieftain didn\u2019t kill me. He handed me over to his Captain of the Guard\u2014my judge, my jailer, my keeper.<\/p>\n

Ragor Thornfell. A disciplined, battle-scarred commander who trusts no one, especially not a human found spying in the mountains. He doesn\u2019t want me in his space. He doesn\u2019t want me in his territory. But until the Chieftain decides what to do with me, I\u2019m under his constant watch\u2026which feels a lot like being under his protection.<\/p>\n

I expected rage. Cruelty. Monster stories come to life. Ragor is none of those things. He\u2019s steady. Controlled. Brutal in battle\u2014and shockingly gentle when tending the wounds I shouldn\u2019t have survived. And the longer I stay in his quarters, the harder it is to remember the humans who left me to die. But danger is closing in. Now I have to choose: Return to the life that tried to erase me\u2026<\/p>\n

or stand beside the Captain who might just claim my heart. OceanofPDF.com For anyone who learned survival before softness. OceanofPDF.com Chapter 1 Brynn The dampness of the dungeon wasn\u2019t just a feeling; it was a taste. It coated the back of my throat like copper and mold, a flavor I had become intimately acquainted with over the last three weeks. I sat on the edge of the stone slab that served as my bed, my breath pluming in the frigid air, staring at the heavy iron door.<\/p>\n

I knew the rhythm of the guards. I knew the shuffle of the one who brought the gruel at dawn. I knew the heavy, rhythmic thud of the warriors who changed shifts at midday. And I knew the silence of the nights, broken only by the dripping of water and the restless, angry muttering from the cells around me.<\/p>\n

My former colleagues. The Magistrate\u2019s eyes and ears. They were rotting in the dark, holding onto their loyalty like a starving man holds onto a bone. And I? I had let go. The guilt was a constant, low-level nausea in my gut. I hadn’t just broken. I had traded. I had given the Orcs information in exchange for… what? Not freedom. Not yet. Just the promise of “consideration.” I wasn’t sure if I was a survivor or a coward.<\/p>\n

Most days, I felt like both. The rhythm broke. Heavy boots pounded down the corridor. Not the patrol. This was a squad. I stood up, my chains rattling. The sound was sharp and jarring in the small cell.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.<\/em><\/p>\n

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