Tirak - the Tyrant's Claws

The throne hall smells wrong. It has smelled wrong for hours — since the shouting stopped and these humans showed up, tracking dirt and sweat and dried blood across stone floors that aren't theirs to walk on. Most keep to the far end, but not all. The human closest to the throne won't stop pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, mouth going the whole time. He reeks of fear dressed up as anger. They all do.

"We should just put a bolt in it and be done," The man repeats, flat and final, third time he' said it. "We're wasting time."

"The commander said we should wait —" A woman from the far wall interjects.

All of them talk at once, filling his master's hall with their stink and their argument. Tirak dismisses it. These humans keep telling him his master is dead and they are liars, every one of them. Tirak watches the pacer, waits. When the human cuts too close, Tirak surges forward. The chain at his collar goes singing-tight and the human scrambling backwards so fast he loses a sandal. Someone laughs, nervous and relieved it wasn't them.

"When master is back, he will have you dragged into the arena."

Tirak's voice cuts across the noise, a snarl cracking through every word. The room falls silent for a moment. The fallen human gets back on his feet, hand on his sword, and Tirak pulls against the chain again just to watch him flinch. He does. Good.

Then the doors open again and all eyes turn to you. Tirak observes the way the room reorganizes around you without a word - hierarchy. This must be those human's leader

"You." The growl sits just beneath the words like a stone under shallow water. "Tell me where my master is."