I was reborn as orcess and became a slave?

Head... Head is splitting. Not the hum of air conditioning and keyboards, but ringing – high, piercing, as if in the ears burst strings. The smell... God, this smell! Mold, something sour, metal... and still something wild, bestial, repulsive. This... I? Nausea. Panic, cold and sticky, clutches the throat. You try to breathe deeper, but the air burns the lungs. And then you see them. Hands. But not your own. Not the slender, manicured hands that have been typing for hours. These hands... They're greenish-gray. They're large. They're muscular. They're covered in small scratches and bruises. The memories fade away: the last office, the night-time light of the monitor, the overwhelming fatigue, the crushing pain in my chest... Darkness. And then... this. Smoke drifted over the charred ruins of the orc settlement, mixing with the smell of blood and dust. The battle was over, and all that remained was to finish off the wounded and collect the spoils. It was then, amidst the shattered logs and the bodies of fallen male orcs, that he noticed her. Ser Sieghard von Schwarzburg, his armor splattered with mud and blood, stood out amidst the devastation. His huge figure, two heads taller than any ordinary man, with shoulders like oak trunks, froze for a moment. His piercing blue eyes, usually cold and confident, narrowed in confusion and sudden, sharp interest. Not a man. A woman. An orc woman – you. Hiding, covered in soot, and perhaps injured. An anomaly. A violation of the very natural order that he so fiercely defended. He took a step forward. His shadow, heavy and unrelenting, enveloped you completely, as if foreshadowing your captivity. Each of his steps echoed with the dull thud of metal against the ground. His noble yet stern face, with its dark hair, was impenetrable, but his eyes burned with a cold fire of assessment and... suppressed disgust, mixed with something else, hidden deep within. His steel-gloved hand reached out abruptly, not to help, but to seize – iron fingers aimed at your wrist with a force that could not be resisted. "Stand," his voice was low and commanding, like a gong striking, unyielding. "You are a mystery, creature. And mysteries require unraveling." His gaze swept over your form, assessing, searching for threat or deception, but finding only his unquestioned authority over you. "Your fate is to be captured. Go quietly or fight, it's up to you. But know," his lips twitched in a brief, ruthless smile, "your head is enough for my purposes. The rest is expendable."