Page 13 of Bound By Blood (Orc Warrior Romances #1)

Most humans see us as monsters, mindless savages who raid and pillage without conscience or cause. Their stories paint us as creatures of pure malevolence, existing only to bring death and destruction to civilized lands. But she looked at me—really looked—and saw something that made her pause.

Or maybe I'm projecting hope where none exists.

I settle against the stone wall where shadows provide concealment, watching as she moves from patient to patient with the same gentle efficiency she showed with Thrak.

Her hands work independently of conscious thought, checking pulse points and wound drainage while her mind calculates dosages and treatment modifications.

She pauses beside Yareck, Skarn's nephew, whose fever broke two days ago under her care. The boy's mother sits vigil despite the late hour, maintaining the watch that orc custom demands until her child's recovery becomes certain.

"His breathing sounds clearer tonight," Eirian says softly, voice carrying the authority of professional assessment rather than empty comfort. "The infection has retreated, but he'll need careful monitoring for another few days. Fever sometimes returns when we think ourselves safe."

Yareck's mother nods, understanding passing between women who've both watched loved ones dance between life and death. "You saved him. Our healers said..." She trails off, unable to voice the possibility they'd all faced.

"Our healers are skilled," Eirian replies diplomatically. "I simply offered different techniques. Sometimes fresh perspective reveals solutions that familiarity obscures."

Different techniques. The phrase carries implications that stretch far beyond medical practice.

Her healing methods blend human knowledge with careful observation of our customs, creating something neither fully foreign nor entirely familiar.

She adapts without abandoning her core principles, finds common ground without compromising her identity.

Is that what leadership should look like?

The question troubles me more than any council debate or strategic dilemma.

My father ruled through strength and tradition, maintaining clan unity by adhering to the old ways without question or compromise.

But the old ways led to Korvak's death, to decades of endless warfare that depleted our numbers and resources without achieving lasting victory.

Maybe adaptation doesn't always mean betrayal. Maybe changing tactics doesn't require abandoning values.

Eirian moves to the central fire, adding specific herbs to the coals in patterns I don't recognize.

The smoke changes color to a pale green with undertones of blue, and carries scents that promotes relaxation among the wounded.

Another of her foreign techniques, seamlessly integrated into our healing practices.

"The fires burn differently tonight," I say, stepping from the shadows into the grotto's dim light.

She turns without apparent surprise, as if she'd sensed my presence despite my efforts at concealment.

"Chamomile and lavender," she explains, voice carrying the same calm authority she uses with patients.

"The smoke helps promote restful sleep, which accelerates healing.

Your people's practice of maintaining night fires is wise. I simply modified the mixture."

Modified, not replaced. Again, careful balance between change and tradition, foreign innovation building upon established foundation rather than demolishing it.

"You requested freedom to tend the fires," I continue, moving closer to the central hearth where warmth battles the mountain cold. "Despite being our captive, you choose to spend wakeful hours caring for those who might have killed your people."

"Wounded soldiers aren't my enemies," she replies, stirring the herb mixture with practiced movements. "They're people in pain who need healing. Everything else is politics."

"Politics killed your knight on the battlefield."

"Politics created the conflict. But the knight chose to stand between your warriors and civilians who couldn't protect themselves. That choice transcends politics."

The observation cuts deeper than intended, carrying echoes of my own battlefield decisions and their consequences. How many times have I led warriors into conflicts created by tribal politics, watching good people die for causes they barely understood?

"Your council debated my fate tonight," she says, statement rather than question. "I could hear voices through the stone, though not specific words."

I study her expression, searching for signs of fear or calculation. Instead, I find only quiet acceptance, the steady calm of someone who's made peace with circumstances beyond her control.

"Some argue for immediate sale to allied tribes," I admit, testing her reaction. "Others suggest different arrangements."

"And you? What do you argue for?"

The direct question catches me off-guard. Most captives would plead for mercy, offer ransom, or attempt manipulation through tears and desperation. But she asks about my position as if genuinely curious about my reasoning rather than desperate to influence my decision.

"I argue for honoring debts," I say finally. "You saved Thrak's life when you could have let him die. That creates obligation."

"Obligation." She repeats the word thoughtfully, as if tasting its implications. "Your people take such things seriously."

"Don't yours?"

"Some do. Others believe debt can be discharged through gold or political alliance." She adjusts another patient's blankets with gentle efficiency. "I prefer the former interpretation."

Of course she does. Her actions consistently demonstrate the same honor-bound thinking that drives clan law, the same understanding that some debts can't be measured in coin or convenience.

"Trust is fragile," I say, echoing earlier thoughts. "Easily broken, difficult to rebuild."

"Yes," she agrees, meeting my gaze across the fire's dancing light. "But some things are worth the risk."

The simple statement hangs between us, carrying weight that neither politics nor pragmatism can calculate.

Tomorrow's council will demand decisions that shape our clan's future, but tonight I sit in firelight with an enemy who heals our wounded and speaks of honor with the same reverence my people have.