"A Flame that Fades"

Chapter 6: Bridging the Divide

TRIGGER WARNING: Contains sexual harassment, humiliation, emotional distress. 
If any of these topics cause discomfort or may be triggering to you, please consider skipping this chapter and taking care of yourself. Your well-being is important, and it's okay to set boundaries with the content you engage with. Please take care.

Freya's POV

I was in pain. Every inch of my body ached—my knees bruised, my hair matted with dirt and sweat. Moving was a struggle, especially with my hands bound behind my back. It felt like the very air around me was thick with dread, and I could barely breathe beneath the weight of it.

"Move," one of the orcs barked, his voice deep and cruel. "The young chief wants to get a closer look."

Before I could even react, a boot landed against my side, forcing me to tumble onto the cold stone floor, my face hitting the ground with a sickening thud. I tried to push myself up, but the force of the kick had knocked the wind from my lungs. The orcs laughed—not with any hint of mirth, but with mockery, their cruel amusement echoing in my ears like a thousand nails on stone.

My body trembled with humiliation and fear, but it was nothing compared to the terror that gripped me when they grabbed me again. Rough hands pulled me by the armpits, yanking me to my feet with no care for the pain or the dignity they were stripping from me. I could feel the warmth of blood dripping from my temple, the sharp sting of the cut as it mingled with the dirt and sweat on my skin.

"She's a beauty, isn't she?" Agnar's voice was smooth, laced with amusement as he glanced over at Azgar. His grin stretched wide, mocking, as though this was all some game to him.

He stepped closer to me, his grip tightening on the collar of my dress. Without a word, he yanked at the fabric, the sound of it ripping through the room. My chest was exposed in an instant—bare, bruised, and vulnerable for them all to see. The cold air cut through me like a knife, and tears filled my eyes, stinging from both the physical pain and the overwhelming humiliation.

I tried to look away, but my gaze instinctively found Azgar. I couldn't pull my eyes from his—his face unreadable, his posture stiff and cold. But even so, I caught something there, something fleeting: a flicker of pity, of sadness, that I couldn't ignore.

It was enough to break me. In the midst of the pain, the mockery, and the shame, there was a glimpse of humanity in him. And that made it all the worse.

As the taunting and mockery continued, I couldn't help but notice Azgar. His hands were tightly gripping the rounded edges of the armrests of his chair, his knuckles painted white from the pressure. His jaw clenched, and his eyes—those dark, calculating eyes—were fixed on me, though his expression was unreadable.

The room seemed to close in around me, the laughter of the orcs like a distant buzz in my ears. The more they jeered and mocked, the more I felt my strength draining, as though the world itself were conspiring to break me. But it wasn't the orcs that I found myself watching now—it was Azgar.

Despite the impassive look on his face, there was something in his posture that made my heart race. His muscles were taut, his shoulders squared, as though he were fighting something—some battle inside himself. His grip on the armrests tightened even further, and for a moment, I thought he might snap.

I could feel it. The way he was struggling. The way he was forcing himself to stay still, to keep his distance, when every part of him seemed ready to move.

But still, he said nothing.

His silence was like a weight in the room, heavy and suffocating, pressing against me. It wasn't pity in his eyes—not really—but something darker. Something far more complicated.