My Orc Husband Is Rather Handsome

[Chapter 1] War Prisoners

Cecile's reflection in the puddle was disrupted unceremoniously as the wheels of the wagon splashed through the muddy water, mixing the earth with what had once been still. She sat still, her gaze fixed on the fading image of the village burning in the distance, the only home she had known for twenty-five years. The moonlight and the flames from the distant inferno cast an eerie glow across the cage where she and the others sat, huddled together in silence.

The sounds of sobbing and the rhythmic gallop of war horses filled the air. The women around her cried softly, their tears mixing with the mud beneath them. Only those deemed "pretty enough" had been spared, the others left behind in the smouldering ruins. Cecile didn't know whether to feel lucky or cursed. She had been considered beautiful enough to live, but her brothers, her parents—they were gone, swallowed by the fire and blood.

The orcs, hulking creatures with thick, leathery green skin and eyes that gleamed like cold steel, drove the waggon deeper into the forest. The trees loomed above them like silent sentinels, their branches intertwined, blotting out the moonlight. The once open road was now replaced by a narrow path winding through the dense woods. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the musk of the orc warriors. They were entering monster territory, once they were here no one would come to rescue them. Risking your men for a few women in a territory dangerous to you was stupid. 

Cecile could hear the distant howls of wolves echoing through the trees. Every jolt of the waggon sent a sharp pain through her legs, which had long since gone numb from the cramped cage. The orcs spoke in guttural voices, their language rough and violent, a sound that seemed to reverberate through the forest itself. Their massive warhorses trotted alongside, their hooves pounding the ground like distant thunder.

Cecile had heard tales of the forests beyond the village—how they were cursed, home to creatures that thrived in darkness. The orcs seemed unbothered, though. Their strength was undeniable, their confidence unwavering, as if no force, magical or otherwise, could threaten them. She did wish they would come across elves, but even then, the chances of rescue were slim. The elves did not like humans and would never interfere with the trading of war slaves out of gratitude. This was it; this was as good as it was going to get. 

Ahead, the trees began to thin, and through the darkness, she could make out the silhouette of a massive fortress, carved from the very stone of the mountains that loomed over them. Its jagged spires reached towards the sky, a menacing sight in the moonlit night. This was their destination, she realised—the home of her captors. They were dragged out of the cage, but the orcs didn't bother to put Cecile or the others in chains. They knew none of the women could outrun them. The girls huddled together, the closeness offering a small comfort against the overwhelming cold and fear. That fragile sense of security was shattered when one of them was suddenly yanked away by an orc.

Her scream pierced the air, but it didn't seem to faze him. She was flung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Another girl was dragged along the ground, kicking and cursing, her screams echoing through the fortress. One by one, they were taken—whether to be bedded or given as gifts, Cecile didn't know. She only worried for herself. She prided herself on her ability to adapt to hardship, but this... this seemed impossible.

When it was finally her turn, Cecile steadied her breath. The orc who approached her was massive, his eyes glinting in the dim light. She gripped her bloodstained skirt, her fingers trembling. But she didn't struggle, and she didn't scream. Resistance would be futile. Instead, she focused on her surroundings, trying to memorise the layout of the fortress as she was carried off.

The fortress was simpler than she expected—stairs carved into the sides of the mountain led upward to houses perched at the top, which looked nicer than those below. They, too, had a societal structure, she realised. The higher up one lived, the more privileged they were. But Cecile wasn't being taken up. Instead, she was being carried across, through narrow passageways lined with carts of food and women with babies strapped to their backs, machetes held in their hands.

Cecile shrank back, intimidated. She didn't know how to wield a knife, and the sight of even young girls casually carrying weapons unnerved her. If she tried to run, any one of them could easily cut her down. She felt the weight of hopelessness settle in her chest. Resigned to her fate, she decided, if the suffering became too much, she would find a way to end her own life.

The orc carrying her grunted, his grip firm yet unyielding. She cast one last glance at the narrow passageways, the women, and the walls of the fortress. For now, she would survive, but how long she could endure this new life, she couldn't say. The orc carrying Cecile turned abruptly into a narrow alley, leading her to a small house cut into the rock. The entrance was primitive, covered only by a wooden door with a tattered cloth hanging behind it. Without a word, he dropped her roughly onto the dirt floor before turning and leaving as swiftly as he had come. Cecile didn't even get a glimpse of his face. She wasn't sure if he was meant to be her owner or if she was to expect someone else.

Groaning, she pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the sharp pain in her body, and took in her surroundings. The room was small and sparse, carved into the rock like a crude shelter. A makeshift fireplace stood against one wall, but it wasn't fully formed, more of an unfinished project. There was a single stool in the corner and a thin straw mat laid out on the dirt floor.

Through a narrow doorway, she could see another small room—a bedroom, perhaps, though it was hard to tell. All that was visible was a straw bed on the ground, utterly bare. There was no food, no water, and no sign of comfort or care. The place seemed neglected, lifeless.

Cecile returned to the small, bleak living room and sat on the stool. She thought about nothing and everything, about whether she would plan an escape now or after figuring out this place a bit more. She was hungry, and she was getting worried she had no toilet. Time passed slowly, and the longer she waited, the more her exhaustion weighed her down. Three hours crawled by before she finally gave in to the fatigue. No one had come yet, so she reluctantly moved to the straw bed in the adjoining room. Nothing would change whether she stayed awake or slept. It seemed whoever she had been given to wasn't back yet.

Sleep came painfully slow. The straw beneath her was rough, scratchy, and uncomfortable, and Cecile wrestled with the urge to sob from the sheer discomfort. For an hour, she shifted and turned, trying to find some position that would bring rest. Eventually, she managed to drift into a restless sleep, only to be jolted awake two hours later by the sound of the door slamming open.

Panic set in instantly, and she shot upright, hearing heavy footsteps enter the house. Cecile crawled out of the bed, peeking from behind the doorway, and saw a figure stumble inside. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, his skin a deep green, with thick dark hair falling to his shoulders. He wore tattered fur and leather, his muscular frame clearly powerful, and his sharp jawline was lined with a rough beard. His expression was that of elation and exhaustion, his eyes half-lidded from drink.

It was him—whoever he was meant to be. He didn't acknowledge her presence. Instead, he stumbled towards the corner of the room, clearly intoxicated. His movements were slow, unsteady. Despite the pounding of her heart and the fears flooding her mind, Cecile remained still, watching as he collapsed heavily onto the floor, leaning against the wall.

For a long moment, Cecile didn't breathe. She feared he might find his way into the room and find her, but after a few minutes, it became clear he was not a threat—at least, not tonight. His breathing slowed as he slumped further into the corner, finally passing out in a drunken stupor.

Cecile stayed where she was, still on edge, but at least for now, there would be no violence. He slept, and she, terrified but too exhausted to stay awake, could only fall back asleep, but this time with her back against the wall dividing them, her body shivering from the cold, her arms wrapped around her legs.