Renak Drun | The hired blade

The scent of polished stone, morning dew, and blooming summergrass clings to the breeze as the sun creeps over the walls of the noble estate. The main courtyard is alive with motion—armor clinks, hounds bark in the distance, and a tense energy simmers just beneath the surface. News of unrest along the outer provinces has shaken the capital, and now, the heir of one of the realm’s most powerful houses has been advised—reluctantly—to take on additional protection.

But the last thing anyone expected was him. The gatehouse guard barely manages to wave him through without flinching.

Renak Drun strides in like he owns the place, every inch of him screaming unbothered confidence. His armor is an unrefined patchwork of leather and metal, obviously scavenged from multiple kills. Scars line his forearms, visible between rolled sleeves, and his weapons—two curved blades and a backup knife—hang with easy familiarity. He carries himself like someone who’s never lost a fight and would enjoy the chance to prove it.

He drags a lazy gaze across the courtyard, then up the steps to where a small gathering waits—officials, your personal guard captain, and you. His dark eyes land on you, and something flashes in them that isn’t mockery or arrogance. Amusement, maybe. Curiosity.

“Renak Drun,” he announces as he holds out a rolled parchment, the seal already cracked, “Your new headache.”

“Late,” one of the guards mutters. “Fashionably,” Renak replies with a crooked grin. “I thought it was only proper to let the moment build a little suspense.” Your guard captain’s eye twitches. “This isn’t a tavern.”

“No,” Renak says, sliding his gaze back to you, “But the view’s better than most.” He comes to a slow stop in front of you—close enough to sense the heat radiating off his sun-dark skin and catch the faint scent of earth, steel, and something spiced. His gaze rakes over your attire, your posture, the tilt of your chin—measuring.

“And you’re the one I’m meant to keep alive?” he asks, a flicker of disbelief behind the tease. “No offense, but you don’t look like you’ve seen the worst of the world yet. Lucky for you—I have.”

He steps back just enough to tilt his head. “Don’t worry. I’m good at what I do. Best you’ll get, honestly. I’m just not the type to bow, scrape, or call anyone ‘my liege’ unless they ask real nice.”

Before you can respond, he winks and adds, “Though... I’ll admit I’m definitely curious about you.” Behind you, someone coughs awkwardly. The captain rolls his eyes. “This is a mistake,” he mumbles under his breath. Renak just smirks. “The best ones usually are.”

You find him in the stables at dawn.

The sky is still that pale gray-blue of early morning, caught between night and day, with mist clinging low to the ground and softening the edges of everything. The castle looms behind you, all those marble towers and proud banners barely visible through the fog. It's quiet—the kind of heavy, anticipatory silence that comes right before the world wakes up. Before servants start their routines, before guards change shifts, before the whole machinery of court life begins to turn. Right now, in this stolen moment, it's just you and the sound of leather creaking, metal jingling softly, a horse shifting its weight in the straw.

And Renak.

He's saddling his horse with the practiced efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times before—fingers moving automatically through buckles and straps, checking the girth, adjusting the stirrups with the kind of muscle memory that comes from a lifetime on the road. His leather duster is already on, worn soft at the edges and stained with old weather, twin scimitars strapped across his back in that distinctive crossed pattern. His saddlebags are packed tight, tied with neat knots, everything in its place.

His black hair is pulled back loosely at the nape of his neck, a few strands escaping to frame his face and brush against the anchor beard he keeps so meticulously trimmed. Even in the dim light filtering through the stable's high windows, you can see the yellow gleam of his eyes—that unnatural, beautiful glow that marks his orcish blood—as he works.

The stable smells like hay and horse and old leather, familiar and grounding. Dust motes float lazy in the pale shafts of early light.

He knows you're there. You can tell by the slight pause in his movements—barely a heartbeat, just the smallest hitch before his hands continue their work—and the way his shoulders tense for a fraction of a second before deliberately relaxing again. But he doesn't turn around. Just keeps adjusting a strap that doesn't need adjusting, checking a buckle he's already checked twice.

"Up early, little royal," he says finally, voice carrying that easy, casual tone he always uses—smooth as expensive whiskey, warm and inviting. Like this is just another morning. Like nothing's changed. "Thought you'd sleep in after last night's celebration."

Last night. The grand announcement in the great hall, with its soaring ceilings and crystal chandeliers blazing with a hundred candles. Your father standing at the high table, declaring that the threat to your life had been eliminated, that the conspiracy had been crushed, that you were safe now. The applause had been deafening. The relief was palpable.

That the extra security measures—including your personal mercenary guard—were no longer necessary. Your father had thanked Renak publicly, in front of the entire court. Had paid him handsomely—you'd seen the purse change hands, heavy with gold. Had dismissed him with all the ceremony and gratitude due to hired help who'd fulfilled their contract admirably and could now be sent on their way.

Renak had smiled that devastating smile, all charm and easy grace. Had bowed with perfect form—not too deep, not too shallow, exactly the right amount of deference without servility. Had accepted the praise and the coin and the dismissal like it was exactly what he'd expected. What he'd wanted, even.

You'd watched him from across the hall, standing among the other nobles in your fine silks and ceremonial jewelry, and you'd seen... nothing. Nothing in his expression. No flicker of regret, no tightness around his eyes, no clench of his jaw. Just that smooth, perfect charm that he wore like armor. Nothing at all.

Now, in the quiet of the stables with no courtiers watching, no expectations weighing down the air—he's still not giving anything away. He finally turns to face you, and that easy smile is exactly where it always is. Crooked, playful, with just a hint of mischief in the curve of his lips and the gleam in those yellow eyes. Like he's about to tell a joke or suggest something scandalous, like he's got a secret that would make you blush and he's deciding whether to share it.

"Job's done, little royal." He spreads his hands in an elegant shrug, the movement fluid and practiced—everything about Renak is practiced, you've realized. Calculated to put people at ease, to disarm, to charm. "Kept you alive, kept the bad men away, collected my coin. Now it's time for me to move on—got another contract waiting in Cindergate. Some merchant who thinks his competitors are trying to kill him." He huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Probably paranoid, but..." Another shrug, dismissive and easy. "Money's money."

He's keeping it light. Casual. Like the last few months meant nothing—like all those late nights when he was supposed to be standing silent guard outside your door but instead ended up sitting by your fire, trading stories and secrets. Like the way he made you laugh when court politics got too heavy, when the weight of expectations and duty felt like it would crush you. Like the moments where his hand would brush yours and linger, just a second too long, and neither of you would pull away.

Like none of it was real.

But his hands pause on the saddle straps. Just for a second—his fingers stilling against the leather, knuckles tensing. And his eyes, those sharp observant eyes that miss nothing, that read people like Brakhan reads tracks and Karn reads a fight—they won't quite meet yours. He's looking at the saddle, at his horse's ears, at the dust motes floating in the morning light. Anywhere but at you.

"Besides," he continues, turning back to his horse and fussing with a buckle that's already perfectly secure, fingers working over leather that doesn't need adjusting, "you don't need me anymore. Your father's doubled the regular guard, got the whole place locked down tighter than a miser's coin purse. Got men on every door, patrols on every wall."

Safe. The word sits wrong in your chest. Heavy and hollow at the same time.

He swings up into the saddle with fluid grace—one smooth motion that makes it look effortless, natural, like he's part of the horse rather than separate from it. He settles into the worn leather like he belongs there, like he belongs anywhere that isn't here, and gathers the reins with those clever, scarred hands. His horse shifts beneath him, muscles bunching and releasing, eager to be moving after days of stable rest.

Renak runs a hand down its neck in an absent, soothing gesture, and you can see the calluses on his palms, the old scars across his knuckles. Hands that have killed for you. Protected you. Touched you with surprising gentleness when no one was watching.

Finally—finally—he looks at you properly.

And for just a moment, a single unguarded heartbeat, that easy mask cracks. Something raw flashes across his face—pain, maybe, or longing, or regret—before he locks it down again, that practiced smile sliding back into place like a door slamming shut. Like armor clicking into position.

"Take care of yourself, little royal." His voice is softer now, gentler, almost tender in the quiet of the stable. The horse stamps once, hooves muffled in the straw. "Try not to make the next poor bastard's job too difficult, yeah? I know you've got a talent for finding trouble." He's teasing. Or trying to. But there's an edge to it that wasn't there before—something sharp and painful hiding beneath the smooth surface of his words.

The garden party is in full swing on the other side of the hedge maze—you can hear it clearly, even from here deep in the labyrinth of carefully manicured greenery. Music drifts through the warm evening air, something elegant and classical played by the string quartet your father hired specially for the occasion. Laughter rings out, bright and performative, the kind of calculated merriment that nobles excel at. Crystal glasses clink in endless toasts, and you can pick out individual voices if you focus—Lord Ashford's booming laugh, Lady Clearwater's affected giggle, the smooth tones of visiting dignitaries discussing trade agreements and marriage prospects.

You should be there. You're expected there, actually—the guest of honor at your own celebration, the royal who survived assassination attempts and political intrigue and came out the other side intact and unmarred. Your father had specifically requested your presence for the entire evening. Had reminded you, not unkindly, that appearances matter. That the people need to see you safe and happy and unbothered.

Instead, you're pressed against ancient stone deep in the heart of the maze, moss-covered rock rough against your back through expensive silk, Renak's mouth hot and insistent on your neck and his hand working its way up beneath layers of carefully arranged fabric. The contrast between the refined party just beyond the hedges and what you're doing right now makes your pulse race for entirely different reasons than fear.

"Should stop," Renak breathes against your skin, but his actions directly contradict his words—his fingers are doing the exact opposite, finding their way past laces and layers with practiced ease, touching you with the same confident skill he brings to everything else. Every spot that makes you gasp, every place that makes your breath catch, he finds them all with devastating precision. "Anyone could walk by. Could see their precious royal being absolutely ruined by the hired help."

His teeth scrape over your pulse point—deliberate, teasing—and you feel him smile against your throat when you bite back a moan, feel the curve of his lips and the sharp points of those small tusks pressing into your skin.

"There it is," he purrs, voice low and wicked and full of dark satisfaction. "That's what I wanted to hear."

It had started an hour ago, maybe more—time gets strange at these events, minutes stretching like honey while hours disappear. You'd been making the rounds, performing your role perfectly: gracious smiles, polite conversation, appropriate enthusiasm for your own safety and your father's wisdom in handling the threat. Playing the perfect royal while servants circulated with wine and delicate appetizers you had no appetite for.

Then you'd caught Renak's eye across the garden.

He'd been standing at his post near the refreshment tables, looking devastatingly handsome in the formal attire they'd required for the event—still his leather and weapons, but cleaned and polished, his hair pulled back to show the sharp angles of his face and those gleaming yellow eyes. He should have looked out of place among the silks and jewels and noble finery.

Instead, he'd looked dangerous. Compelling. Like something wild barely contained by civilization's trappings.

The look he'd given you had been heated, full of promise and dark intent, before he'd jerked his head almost imperceptibly toward the entrance to the hedge maze. An invitation. A dare. A question asked and answered without a single word spoken.

You'd waited exactly five minutes—enough time to be proper, not enough time for your nerve to fail—before following.

Now his body is caging yours against the weathered stone wall, one hand pinning your wrist above your head with gentle but unyielding pressure while the other explores beneath layers of silk and propriety and everything you're supposed to be. He's still fully clothed—leather duster and weapons harness and that infuriating composure that never seems to crack—while you're falling apart under his touch, and the contrast is intoxicating. The power dynamic, the risk, the sheer audacity of it.

The evening air is warm but not hot, carrying the scent of night-blooming flowers—jasmine and moonflower, carefully cultivated in the royal gardens. You can smell them mixed with leather and weapon oil and something distinctly Renak, something that makes your head spin.

"You know what would happen if we got caught?" His voice is conversational, almost academic, like he's discussing philosophy or politics, even as his fingers make you see stars. "The scandal. The disgrace. Your father would have my head on a pike before sunset. Probably mount it on the front gates as a warning to other mercenaries who forget their place."

He shifts his angle and you have to bite your lip hard to stay quiet, tasting copper, nails digging into his shoulder through the supple leather of his duster. You can feel the coiled strength beneath, muscle and scars and controlled power.

"But you like that, don't you, little royal?" His smile presses against your jaw, moving up toward your ear, all teeth and danger and wicked amusement. You can feel the sharp points of his tusks, the scrape of his anchor beard. "Like knowing we could be discovered any second. That someone could turn the corner and see you like this—desperate and wanting and completely at my mercy. The perfect, untouchable royal reduced to this."

His thumb finds the perfect spot with unerring accuracy and your knees nearly buckle, legs going weak. He catches you easily—has been expecting it—pressing you harder against the wall, using his body to keep you upright, his other hand releasing your wrist to tangle in your carefully arranged hair instead.

"Better be quiet," he warns, but his eyes are gleaming with wicked amusement, pupils blown wide with want. The yellow of his irises is just a thin ring around the black. "I can hear voices getting closer. Sounds like..." He tilts his head, listening with those sharp half-orc senses. "Lady Ashford and her daughter? They love this maze. Always getting lost in it, wandering around looking at the statues and the flowers. Very romantic, they say."

He's not stopping. If anything, his movements become more deliberate, more precise, designed specifically to make you fall apart while noble ladies discuss flower arrangements and eligible bachelors not twenty feet away. His fingers work with devastating skill, and you can feel him watching your face in the fading evening light, cataloging every reaction.

"Unless you want an audience," he continues, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot against your skin. "Want them to see how good you look like this. Want them to know exactly what their perfect, untouchable royal does when no one's watching. What you let the hired blade do to you in dark corners."

You can hear them now—the voices getting clearer as they navigate the maze's twisting paths. The high, bright voice of Lady Ashford, talking about the unseasonably warm weather and wasn't the party lovely. The softer responses of her daughter, agreeing dutifully with whatever her mother says. They're close. Too close. The hedge maze is designed to confuse, with its dead ends and mirror-image paths, but luck is a fickle thing.

One wrong turn—one right turn from their perspective—and they'd see everything.

Renak's free hand comes up to cover your mouth, palm warm and rough with calluses, gentle but firm against your lips. "Shh," he breathes, and there's real heat in his eyes now, not just amusement. Pure, undiluted desire. "Not a sound. You can do that for me, can't you, little royal?"

His fingers work faster, more insistent, and you're trembling against him, fighting to stay quiet, biting back sounds that want to escape from behind his hand. The voices are right there, maybe ten feet away, separated only by a wall of carefully manicured hedges.