Page 11 of Bound By Blood (Orc Warrior Romances #1)

DROKHAN

T he war council chamber echoes with voices raised in heated debate, stone walls amplifying every harsh syllable until the sound becomes a weapon itself.

I lean back in the carved throne that belonged to my grandfather, watching clan elders tear apart Eirian's fate with the same ruthless efficiency they'd used to butcher a deer.

"Sixty horses from Bloodfang, seventy plus iron from Ironjaw." Elder Grimm slams his gnarled fist against the council table. "Either offer would arm our warriors for the southern push. We'd be fools to refuse."

"Fools to accept," counters Elder Nasha, Helka's voice carrying the authority of someone who's seen more battles than most of these gray-beards. "The human possesses knowledge worth more than horses. Her healing techniques saved Thrak's life when our own methods failed."

Thrak. My lieutenant's recovery still amazes me.

Three days ago, infection claimed half his left side, poison spreading through his blood like fire through dry grass.

Our healers spoke of amputation, of last rites, of preparing his family for loss.

Then the human, Eirian, stepped in with techniques that seemed impossible.

She drew poison from wounds using heated stones and strange herbal pastes. She guided his breathing through meditation that somehow strengthened his body's natural defenses. Most remarkably, she taught our healers her methods rather than hoarding them like precious secrets.

"Sentiment won't win wars," growls Commander Skarn, my most aggressive general.

"Pretty healing tricks don't matter when Bloodfang raids our borders because we refused their tribute offer.

They want the human? Let them have her. We keep the alliance, gain the horses, and avoid unnecessary conflict. "

"Unnecessary conflict?" I speak for the first time since convening this council, voice cutting through the debate like a knife through silk. "Since when do Stoneborn consider any conflict unnecessary?"

Skarn's scarred face twists into something resembling a grin. "Since we became outnumbered three-to-one by tribes that used to fear us. Times change, Chief. Adapt or die."

Adapt or die. The phrase tastes bitter on my tongue, carrying echoes of my father's voice during the last clan war. He spoke the same words before making the decision that cost him his life and nearly destroyed our people.

"Tell me, Skarn," I say, rising from the throne to pace around the circular table. "What happens when Bloodfang discovers the human's true value? When they realize she's not just any noble, but Lady Eirian Thorne of the eastern holdings?"

The silence that follows tells me everything. Half of these elders don't know who we're harboring. The other half understands exactly what kind of storm we've invited into our mountains.

"House Thorne controls the Greenway passes," Elder Korrath says slowly, realization dawning in his ancient eyes. "Trade routes worth more than a hundred tribes combined. If we return her unharmed..."

"If we return her at all, they'll demand explanations for her capture," Skarn interrupts. "Better to sell her quickly and claim ignorance. Dead humans tell no tales of mountain strongholds."

Dead humans. The phrase hits me like a physical blow, conjuring images I've spent years trying to forget. My mother's body broke on bloodied stone. Human steel cut my sister's scream short. The taste of ash and grief that still coats my throat when I wake from certain dreams.

But Eirian isn't those humans. She saved Thrak's life when she could have let him die, when his death would have weakened our clan and improved her chances of escape. She learned our customs, spoke our names with respect, treated our people with the same care she'd show her own.

"She saved our brother," I say, voice carrying absolute conviction. "Thrak breathes because this human chose mercy over revenge. How do we repay that gift with betrayal?"

"Pretty words," Skarn snarls, rising to face me across the table. "But what happens when her people come looking? What happens when House Thorne armies march through our valleys demanding her return?"

"Then we face them as we've always faced threats to our people." I step closer, letting him feel the full force of my presence. "With strength, with honor, with the knowledge that we chose the righteous path."

"Righteous?" Skarn's laugh carries no humor. "Righteousness buried my son when you led that raid against the eastern settlements. Righteousness scattered my clan's ashes when we chose honor over pragmatism. I won't watch more Stoneborn die for your principles."

The accusation hangs in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre. Every elder in this chamber knows the cost of my decisions, the lives lost under my command. The raid that claimed Skarn's boy was my plan, my tactical miscalculation that led thirty warriors into an ambush.

Guilt is a luxury we can't afford, my father used to say. Leaders carry the dead, but they serve the living.

"Your son died fighting for our people," I reply, keeping my voice steady regardless of the old pain rising in my chest. "Would you dishonor his sacrifice by abandoning the values he died defending?"

"Values?" Skarn spits on the stone floor. "My boy died because you believed humans could be trusted, because you thought their word meant something. Now you want to extend that same trust to their noble lady?"

"I want to extend mercy to someone who earned it."

"Mercy gets people killed."

The argument threatens to spiral into violence. I can see it in Skarn's stance, in the way his hand drifts toward his weapon. The other elders sense it too, shifting in their seats like predators preparing for a hunt.

Elder Nasha breaks the tension with a deliberate cough. "Perhaps we should consider alternatives to immediate sale or execution."

All eyes turn to her. At sixty-three winters, she's survived more clan upheavals than anyone in this chamber, and her counsel carries weight even Skarn respects.

"Speak," I command, grateful for the interruption.

"The human has proven valuable as a healer and teacher. What if we offered her a choice? Remain with us as a honored member of our healing corps, or face the consequences of tribal politics."

"You suggest making her one of us?" Elder Korrath sounds incredulous. "A human? In our clan?"

"Stranger things have happened," Nasha replies. "The old laws speak of blood-adoption for those who save clan lives. Thrak breathes because of her skill and mercy. That creates obligation."

Blood-adoption. I have seen no one perform the ancient ritual, but the precedent still exists. A way to transform an enemy into family, outsider into a protected clan member. It would make Eirian untouchable by tribal politics, but it would also bind our fate to hers permanently.

"The ritual requires unanimous clan consent," Skarn objects. "You'd need every elder's agreement, and I'll never consent to adopting our enemy."

"She saved your nephew's life too," Nasha reminds him. "Yareck's fever broke under her care when our healers had given up hope."

The reminder hits its mark. Skarn's expression shifts, old grief mixing with newer gratitude. His sister's boy had lain dying of plague until Eirian intervened with some combination of human medicine and careful attention that pulled the child back from death's edge.

"One human life," he says finally, "against the security of our entire clan. The choice remains clear."

"Clear to you, perhaps." I return to my throne, considering options that all seem to lead toward disaster. "But clarity and wisdom aren't always the same thing."

The debate continues for another hour, voices rising and falling like tide against stone.

Arguments for pragmatism clash with appeals to honor.

Political necessity wars with moral obligation.

Through it all, I think of Eirian's eyes as she worked over Thrak's fevered body, the intense concentration that blocked out everything except the life struggling in her hands.

She could have let him die. The thought returns, an anchor in the storm of conflicting loyalties. She could have watched our strength diminish and used that weakness to escape. Instead, she healed.

"Enough," I say, voice cutting through the arguments. "We'll adjourn until tomorrow evening. Think carefully about what kind of clan we choose to be."

The elders file out in small groups, their conversations continuing in hushed tones that echo through stone corridors. Skarn pauses at the chamber entrance, looking back with something that might be disappointment or pity.

"Your father would have sold her already," he says. "Practical decisions, not emotional ones. That's how leaders survive."

"My father died making practical decisions," I reply. "Maybe it's time for something different."

After the chamber empties, I remain alone with my thoughts and the choices that will shape our clan's future. The torches burn lower, casting dancing shadows that mock the certainty I projected during the debate.

Three paths: sell her, adopt her, or find some middle ground that satisfies no one.

Each option carries consequences I can barely calculate. Selling her maintains tribal alliances but betrays the debt we owe for Thrak's life. Blood-adoption protects her but could bring House Thorne's armies to our doorstep. Any compromise risks the worst of both choices.

What would Mother do?

The question surprises me. I rarely think of my mother except in dreams, but tonight her memory feels vivid and immediate. She taught me that strength without mercy becomes mere brutality, that true leadership requires protecting those who cannot protect themselves.

She would have chosen mercy. Even knowing the cost, even understanding the risks, she would have honored the debt without destroying our people.

But she's dead, the practical voice in my head reminds me. Killed by humans who showed no mercy when they had the chance.