The Fangs

The tent was warm, the air thick with the lingering scent of wine and fire smoke. Marakka's lips were soft against Torak's. His head swam, the evening's wine tugging him deeper into the haze. Her hands roamed, tracing the muscle and scars that marked him—a warrior, a conqueror.

He grunted softly, pulling her closer, the world around them narrowing to her touch. She straddled his lap, her smile wicked yet inviting, her dark eyes brimming with mischief.

And then—a sharp pain struck the back of his neck, quick as a serpent's bite. It was sudden enough to jolt him from his intoxicated stupor. The warmth of the moment shattered like glass. His heart thudded unevenly. His vision swam. He blinked against the dizziness as Marakka's smile shifted—no longer seductive but sly and calculating.

"You…" he murmured, his voice thick, the words caught in his throat.

"Shh," she whispered, pressing a finger to his lips as though calming a child. "Sleep, Khal Torak."

Her voice was honeyed, but the venom beneath was unmistakable.

Torak's instincts screamed, but he swallowed the rush of anger and forced his body to go limp, sagging against the furs. He allowed his eyes to flutter shut, chest rising and falling in feigned unconsciousness.

Marakka watched him carefully, waiting for any sign of movement. Then, with a triumphant smirk, she slipped off his body and stood, smoothing her disheveled dress with a prideful air. "Finally," she muttered, pacing the edge of the tent. "How predictable men are. Even the great Torak, brought down by his thirst for pleasure."

Torak's fists clenched under the fur, but he remained still, listening.

Marakka tilted her head back and laughed softly, a hollow sound that made Torak's blood simmer. "I should thank you, Torak," she said to his seemingly lifeless form. "You made this easy—so easy. Did you really think you'd get away with slaughtering my father?"

Her voice trembled with a deep, dark hatred now, every syllable sharp as a dagger.

"For months, I dreamed of this moment. For months, I and Rakkaro, the rightful heir, planned this together. The man I was suppose to marry. The true Khal. While you were busy playing warlord, we wove this night into existence."

Rakkaro. Torak held onto the name.

Marakka spun toward the tent flap and whistled softly.The heavy sound of boots followed—a group of men stepping into the tent.

Torak cracked his eyes just enough to see them.

Rakkaro entered first. He was tall, broad-shouldered. His hair was long and bound with rings, his face angular and cruel. Nine men followed, their weapons gleaming in the firelight.

Rakkaro stopped at the foot of the bed and sneered down at Torak. "Is this the mighty Khal Torak?" His voice dripped with scorn. "Lying there like a pig, waiting for the slaughter."

Marakka chuckled, moving to Rakkaro's side. "A beast who didn't even see the trap until the jaws had closed."

Rakkaro's lip curled as he leaned closer, his shadow casting over Torak. "You know, Torak, I almost feel pity for you. You played at being Khal, but you are just another brute. I'll give you mercy, though." He spat, the wet glob landing squarely on Torak's chest. "It will be quick."

Torak's blood pounded. Now.

Rakkaro raised his spear for the killing blow, stepping closer—just within reach.

Torak's body surged to life. His hand shot out, gripping the shaft of the spear mid-thrust. The room froze as Rakkaro's face twisted in disbelief.

Torak yanked him forward with a roar, the momentum snapping Rakkaro's balance. Before the others could react, Torak's hands seized Rakkaro's head. There was a sickening crack as he twisted hard, breaking his neck. Rakkaro's body crumpled lifelessly to the ground.

For a heartbeat, the room was silent.

Marakka screamed, stumbling back. "Kill him! KILL HIM!"

The nine men attacked as one, their blades gleaming like vipers' fangs. Torak spun, snatching up Rakkaro's fallen spear. He ducked under the first strike, driving the spear backward into the gut of the closest attacker. Blood sprayed hot across his arm.

Another came at him from the right—fast. Torak swung the spear like a hammer, its wooden shaft shattering the man's jaw. He dropped like a stone.

Two more charged, their blades slicing toward him. Torak planted his feet and thrust the spear. Impaling one man clean through the chest and with a roar, Torak hurled the spear, its iron tip tearing through Marakka's stomach and pinning her like a broken doll against the tent wall.

The other man froze, eyes wide, giving Torak just enough time to close the distance and drive his fist into the man's throat. The warrior choked, falling backward.

Three down. Six to go.

Torak's body burned. His vision swayed for a moment, the poison crawling deeper, but his fury kept him upright.

One lunged, blade biting across Torak's arm. Pain seared, but Torak turned, grabbed the man's wrist, and wrenched it so hard the bone snapped. With a growl, he slammed the man's own blade into his chest.

The others hesitated now, faces pale with fear. Torak stood before them, his chest heaving, his face blood-smeared and monstrous. "Come," he growled, his voice low, feral.

Two more rushed him, their screams desperate. Torak sidestepped the first, grabbed him by the hair, and drove his knee into his face—once, twice—until he went limp. The other slashed wildly, nicking Torak's ribs. Torak roared, grabbing the man's shoulder and throwing him into the remaining group with bone-crushing force.

The last man alive, kneeling and bleeding, coughed and laughed weakly. "You're already dead, Torak," he wheezed. "Our blades… are poisoned."

Torak kicked him hard in the head, silencing him forever.

The tent fell into a suffocating stillness.

Marakka's whimpers broke it. She still hung from the spear, her body pinned against the pillar, blood spreading across her dress. Torak staggered toward her, his steps heavy, his breaths ragged.

"You… you should be dead," she spat, her voice trembling. "There were supposed to be more…"

Torak smirked through the pain, his teeth bared. "They stayed behind because of today's victory. Your plan died before it started."

Marakka cursed him, her voice breaking as tears mixed with blood. Torak reached for her chin, forcing her to look at him. "You were always the bait, Marakka. You just didn't know it."

He drove his hand across her neck with a final, merciful twist.

As her body went still, Torak staggered back. He heard the camp outside—the panic, the shouting—and his mother's cry cutting through it all.

"Torak!"

He turned, just in time to see his mother and Malika rush into the tent. His vision swam, the poison finally pulling him under.

The last thing he saw was their faces—stricken, desperate—as they reached for him.