The captured orc scout had been silent during the march back to camp, but Arthur noticed how his yellow eyes kept tracking the enhanced soldiers' movements. The way they moved, the casual display of superhuman strength—it clearly unsettled and fascinated him in equal measure.
"Your Majesty," Hawklight approached as they secured the prisoner. "Want me to handle the interrogation?"
"No," Arthur said, studying the orc. Despite being bound, the scout held himself with dignity—scarred green skin marked by countless battles, tusks unbroken despite his capture. "Bring him to my tent. Alone."
Hawklight frowned. "That's not—"
"He won't harm me." Arthur let a fraction of his presence leak out, just enough to make his point. The orc's eyes widened, and he dropped to his knees despite no one forcing him down.
"*Mak'thar nei*," the orc whispered in his guttural language.
Arthur's system translated instantly, thanks to Beatrice's research: "The strong one comes."
