Flayah rode like the wind, her powerful frame pressed low against the sinewy back of her alpha sabretooth. The beast moved with the fluid grace of a seasoned hunter, muscles rippling beneath its thick, pale coat. The contrast between them was stark: her deep green skin against the near-white fur of her companion. Her crimson hair whipped behind her like a war banner as they tore through the dense underbrush.


    Skinner and Rykterpyle followed closely behind, each mounted on their own sabretooth. Flayah, however, had a bond unlike any other with the beasts. The cat Rykterpyle rode was Flayah’s, tamed by her own hands, forged through a connection deeper than instinct, a tether of the mind and spirit. Even now, with the wind screaming past her ears, she could feel its presence within her thoughts, subtle yet unmistakable. That same connection led her toward the fallen one. Toward the place where death had severed the link.


    It was a brutal half-day’s ride, with the sun climbing high overhead and scorching the damp forest air. By midday, the scent of moist soil grew thick, and the crash of a waterfall pounded in the distance. The pulse of the remnant bond grew stronger, whispering to her like a final plea. When they arrived, Flayah wasted no time.


    Without hesitation, she leaped from the cliff’s edge, her body cutting through the air with the precision of a falcon diving for prey. The waterfall roared beneath her, its white mist rising in defiant clouds, the jagged rocks below threatening a gruesome end. But she was no fool. She calculated her dive to the inch, twisting her body mid-air to cut through the raging depths, missing the deadly stone outcroppings by mere feet.


    Skinner gasped, his knuckles white around his reins. “By the blood of the first…”


    Rykterpyle, in contrast, only watched with a knowing gaze, his expression unreadable.


    Flayah plunged into the tumultuous waters, the force slamming into her like a giant’s fist. The weight of her gear threatened to drag her under, but she fought against the current, her powerful arms cutting through the liquid fury. Gritting her teeth, she seized hold of jagged rocks beneath the surface, their slick edges threatening to slice her palms. She climbed, her fingers curling around any crevice, any hold that would grant her purchase. The rain of water thundered down over her, the pressure unrelenting, but she scaled the cliffside like a predator born in this environment.


    Emerging from the crashing deluge, she found the body amidst a section of rocks that were out of the direct path of the falls.


    The saber’s massive form lay twisted and broken, its once-mighty muscles slack, its powerful limbs splayed at unnatural angles. The sight was a blade through her heart.


    Flayah crouched beside it, running her calloused fingers over the blood-streaked fur. She could still feel the fading echo of their bond, weak, distant, fading like the last embers of a dying fire. She had tamed countless beasts in her lifetime and had ridden upon the backs of monsters few dared approach, but her sabers… her sabers were different. Each was a part of her, as much an extension of her soul as her own limbs. She had just always felt a much closer connection to them than any other pack of beasts she had tamed. Maybe it was because they were native to her home jungle on Naroona.


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    They had no names. They did not need them. She knew them by their spirit, by the way they moved, the way they thought, the rhythm of their very being in her mind. The system granted them number designations, but Flayah ignored them. Her bond with them was closer than a mere system-granted number. And now, one of them was gone.


    Her jaw tightened, moisture gathering at the corners of her yellow eyes. She glanced up at the towering cliffside. It had fallen from there… but how? Her beast was strong. Agile. It would never have lost its footing so carelessly. Something had to have happened.


    For twenty long minutes, Skinner and Rykterpyle remained atop the waterfall, waiting. Skinner fidgeted, uneasy, while Rykterpyle remained stoic and patient. Then, from the bend in the thick underbrush, Flayah emerged. She was soaked, her hair clinging to her emerald skin, her armor weighted down with water. But her movements were steady, her stance unbroken. She had climbed the rock face, gear and all, as though the treacherous ascent had been nothing more than a morning ritual. All while pulling the weight of her fallen saber behind her on a long rope. She asked for no assistance, she only pulled the rope.


    Rykterpyle met her eyes, nodding in silent approval. A warrior. A true survivor of the Orc race.


    Skinner, however, stared for another reason. His amber eyes burned with something darker… envy, hunger. She was everything he was not. Strong, relentless, and untamed. He could never have her. He knew that. But knowing only made him crave her more.


    She was an orc of pure blood, a warrior born and bred. He was not. He was a yellow; an offshoot, a mutation, a reminder of diluted lineage. Weaker. Lesser. And that knowledge festered in him like an unhealed wound.


    He had always lived in the shadows of orcs like Flayah and Rikterpyle, always looked up at them from below. Always been forced to accept that no matter his skill, no matter his ambition, he would never truly stand among them as an equal. And that made him want her all the more.


    Flayah dropped the outer layers of her light armor and waterlogged boots as she prepared to honor her fallen friend. As she buried the beast, performing the rites with a warrior’s reverence, Rykterpyle observed in silence. Skinner, however, let his gaze roam, tracing the lines of her wet undershirt that clung to her powerful form. The taut muscle beneath her skin, the way her drenched hair framed her fierce features. She was a vision of raw, primal beauty, both beast and master, both wild and disciplined.


    As a Beastmaster, her path had been clear from the moment she came of age. Orc society was brutal and primal. Women were often claimed by the strongest warriors, given as mates to those who had proven their might. But Flayah was not one to be given. She took. One who chose, if she ever found one worthy. And few were.


    Her primal eyes burned with purpose as she stood, wiping mud and blood from her hands.


    A chirping sound broke the heavy silence. Rykterpyle’s chrome communicator buzzed to life on his shoulder. A voice crackled through the speaker.


    “Boss, we’ve got a problem at Research Outpost Theta. Two researchers haven’t checked in. It’s close, maybe two hours from your location.”


    Rykterpyle’s eyes flicked to Skinner. “Something’s happening out here.”


    Skinner’s expression hardened. “First the beast… now this…”


    Flayah said nothing, only adjusting the straps of her armor as she donned it once more before mounting her alpha.


    Rykterpyle exhaled sharply, nodding. “We ride.”


    The three orcs spurred their sabers forward, tearing across the wilderness toward the outpost.


    As they rode, Skinner’s gaze lingered on Flayah’s back, watching the way she moved with her beast, the seamless flow of her body with the large feline. She was untouchable. Unattainable. But he would bide his time.


    One way or another, before they left this world, she would be his.