With a guttural growl, the orc advanced, dragging its massive hammer across the stone floor, the sound grating against the boy's ears like nails scraping against a chalkboard. Each echo reverberated through the cavern, amplifying the boy's dread. He struggled futilely against his bindings, but the ropes only tightened, biting cruelly into his flesh, a cruel reminder of his helplessness.
The orc pulled out a dagger, its blade glinting ominously in the dim light as it traced a chilling path along the boy's cheek. The cold steel sent a jolt of terror coursing through him, a visceral reminder of the brutality that awaited. In an instant, the orc slashed the knife across the boy's arm, and pain erupted like a wildfire as the blade tore through skin, crimson droplets spilling forth and pooling on the unforgiving stone floor.
The boy cried out, his voice a raw, desperate plea that reverberated through the cavern, but the orc merely laughed—a cruel, mocking sound that echoed off the damp, dark walls, amplifying his misery. Each shriek of anguish only fueled the creature's sadistic delight as it began its grim work, inflicting torment with a cold precision that seemed to relish the suffering it wrought.
As the boy's screams filled the cavern, mingling with the echoes of despair, he fought against the encroaching darkness threatening to engulf him. Clinging to the fleeting hope that someone would come to rescue him, he felt the tendrils of despair tightening around his heart. Yet deep down, a grim truth settled in: no one could save him, not even Enyora. 
As he drew in a final, shuddering breath, the chieftain halted his grim task, turning away with casual indifference. He settled into his chair, the weight of authority radiating from him as he surveyed the carnage he had wrought. "Throw him into the mutants' dungeon," he ordered, his voice cold and devoid of compassion, as if dismissing a mere inconvenience. The orcs moved with grim purpose, the reality of Willem's fate sealing his despair as he was dragged away from the
remnants of his shattered hope.
Back in the dim cell, Enyora, a mere seventeen years old, lay bound upon the unforgiving cold stone floor. Her tangled hair fell in disarray around her face, and dirt streaked her cheeks, remnants of the struggle and despair that had consumed her. The flickering torch mounted on the wall cast long, wavering shadows that danced across the damp, crumbling walls, revealing the decay and darkness that enveloped her like a suffocating shroud.
With a creak that echoed ominously, the heavy, iron-bound door swung open, and Lok'Ra strode into the cell. She was a formidable figure, towering and imposing, her greyish skin glistening ominously in the torchlight. Muscles rippled beneath her leather armor, a testament to her strength and ferocity. Long, matted hair hung loosely around her shoulders, framing a face that bore the marks of countless battles. A wicked grin spread across her lips, exposing yellowed teeth that gleamed with a malice that sent shivers racing down Enyora’s spine.
As the orc stepped into the confines of the cell, the girl instinctively recoiled, pressing her back against the unforgiving stone wall, desperate to create distance between herself and the embodiment of her nightmares. Lok'Ra’s laughter erupted, a deep, guttural sound that reverberated through the cramped space, filling the air with an unsettling malevolence. The echoes of her mirth twisted in Enyora’s gut, a cruel reminder of her vulnerability, and the girl could feel the weight of despair settle heavily upon her, suffocating her hope with every mocking chuckle that filled the dimly lit chamber.
The girl’s heart raced wildly as the orc approached, the heavy thud of her boots reverberating ominously against the stone floor. In Lok'Ra's hand was a twisted assortment of tools—some glimmering with sharp, menacing edges, while others were rusted and worn, each item bearing the silent promise of suffering. As Enyora's gaze flicked over the collection, her breath quickened, a wave of icy dread washing over her as she comprehended the full extent of her nightmare.
“Let’s see how long you can endure,” the orc taunted, her voice dripping with sadistic glee as she knelt beside the girl. The flickering torchlight cast grotesque shadows on Lok'Ra’s face, emphasizing the wicked grin that twisted her features. Leaning in closer, she seized a handful of Enyora’s hair, yanking her head back with a brutal force that exposed her throat, leaving the girl vulnerable and trembling.
Enyora cried out, the sound a desperate plea that echoed off the damp walls of the cell, reverberating through the oppressive silence. But Lok'Ra only laughed louder, a deep, menacing sound that filled the air with a sense of impending doom. “Scream all you want,” she sneered, her voice laced with mockery. “Your scream is muffled by your man's scream.” 
The orc's words hung in the air like a dark cloud, a cruel reminder of the torment awaiting both her and Willem, intertwining their fates in a tapestry of pain and despair. Each syllable was a dagger to Enyora's heart, the weight of her helplessness crashing down upon her as she braced for the cruelty that was about to unfold.
Lok'Ra pressed the cold steel of her dagger against the girl’s skin, just above her collarbone, and slowly drew it across, leaving a shallow cut that stung like fire. Enyora gasped, tears streaming down her face as pain cascaded through her body, a searing reminder of her vulnerability. “You will learn to fear me,” the orc hissed, her eyes gleaming with sadistic delight as she watched the girl writhe in agony.
With each passing moment, Lok'Ra unleashed a relentless barrage of torment—twisting Enyora’s limbs with a cruel precision, branding her delicate skin with heated metal, and laughing with a savage glee at her cries of pain. Each new wound carved deeper into Enyora’s spirit, the darkness of despair creeping in like a suffocating fog as she struggled to remain conscious. The orc reveled in her suffering, each scream a twisted symphony that echoed through the dank chamber.
“Soon, you’ll beg for mercy,” Lok'Ra sneered, her voice laced with wicked pleasure, a promise of further torment hanging in the air. “But I won’t grant it. I want to savor every moment of your suffering.” 
As the torment continued, Enyora’s thoughts began to blur, her reality fading into a haze of pain and fear. The world around her dimmed, and finally, she lost her vision, her body going limp as she succumbed to the depths of despair. Lok'Ra sneered, “Weak,” the word dripping with contempt as she surveyed her broken prey.
With a casual indifference, the orc hoisted Enyora’s unmoving body and carried her away from the cell, seeking a place where no one could witness her cruel deed. She traversed through the shadows, her muscles coiling beneath her skin with each powerful step.
Eventually, Lok'Ra arrived at a murky river, its waters darkened and tainted by the orc's vile deeds. She glanced around, ensuring that no prying eyes were upon her, then, with a flick of her wrist, she unceremoniously dumped Enyora's lifeless body into the water as if she were discarding mere refuse. 
The girl’s body hit the dirty current with a soft splash before it began to flow downstream, carried away by the dark waters, a ghost adrift in a world that had turned its back on her. The river, once a symbol of life, now became a silent witness to the cruelty and darkness that surrounded them, as Enyora’s spirit faded into the depths of despair.
End of book 1.