The orc's body trembled faintly as his panicked gaze swept over everyone in the tavern—as if wondering who had forced him to speak.
The two human soldiers stared at him in utter disbelief.
Yet those words had clearly come from his own throat.
For an instant, the air beneath the candlelight seemed to warp, like a heat haze sweeping across the sand, before quickly returning to normal.
In the corner, Mariana remained seated in silence, her veil lowered and her fingertips resting lightly against the rim of her cup. She had not moved an inch.
Her gaze had never left the tabletop, yet in that instant, the surface of the clear water before her had formed the faintest ripple.
It had happened at precisely the same moment the orc's words left his mouth.
The orc officer was still covering his mouth, his chest heaving violently as indistinct whimpers came from his throat.
Terror spread like a tide through his wide eyes—not fear of an enemy, but horror at his own body slipping out of his control.
He slowly lowered his hand, his fingers stiff as he tested whether his mouth still belonged to him.
He opened and closed his mouth, seemingly wanting to say something—a command, a threat, even a roar—
But the instant his lips parted, another voice surged from his throat once more, low and clear, carrying uncontrollable mockery:
"Alba, who only knows how to bully the weak and fear the strong, went crawling back to the grasslands with his tail between his legs long ago!"
The voice was louder and sharper than the previous sentence, as if another soul inside him were speaking in his place.
"Ah—!" He suddenly clutched his throat with both hands, his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets as his entire face twisted