Page 14 of Bound By Blood (Orc Warrior Romances #1)

EIRIAN

I 've been awake since before dawn, methodically exploring every corner of this underground sanctuary while the wounded sleep peacefully nearby. The morning light filters through crystal formations embedded in the grotto walls, casting prismatic rainbows across the healing springs.

Three days of captivity, and I'm still learning new secrets.

The grotto extends further than I initially realized as a network of interconnected chambers carved by centuries of flowing water.

Each pool maintains a different temperature, fed by underground springs that emerge from fissures in the living rock.

The Orcs have built their healing sanctuary around these natural phenomena, working with the mountain's gifts rather than imposing foreign structures upon them.

I kneel beside the eastern pool, testing water temperature with my fingertips.

Warm, but not uncomfortably so. The mineral content creates a slight film on the surface that catches light like oil, swirling in patterns almost deliberately.

My mother's journals mentioned similar springs in the deep valleys, waters that carried properties beyond simple heat therapy.

If the old stories are true...

I close my eyes, pressing my palm flat against the smooth stone basin. The rock feels different here—not just cold granite, but something that seems to pulse with subtle energy. A rhythm that echoes deep in my bones, matching the steady beat of my heart.

There. A tremor passes, barely perceptible but unmistakably present. The elemental magic my mother wrote about in her private notes, the power source that made certain healing practices possible.

I pull my hand back, staring at my palm as if expecting to see physical evidence of the contact. Nothing visible, but the sensation lingers—a warmth that has nothing to do with the spring's temperature.

"You feel it too."

The voice doesn't startle me. I've grown accustomed to Drokhan's ability to move silently despite his massive frame, and his habit of observing before announcing his presence.

"The stone magic," I say, not turning around. "My mother wrote about places like this, springs that carried power from deep in the earth."

"Your mother was wise." His voice sounds rougher than usual, strained in a way that makes me glance back in concern.

Sweat beads across his forehead despite the grotto's cool air. His breathing seems slightly labored, and he moves with less fluid confidence than normal. The wound from three days ago as a deep gash across his left shoulder that he dismissed as trivial.

Infection.

"You're fevered," I observe, rising from my crouch beside the pool. "The shoulder wound isn't healing properly."

"It's nothing." The automatic denial carries no genuine conviction. "I came to check on the wounded."

"The wounded you can see from the entrance are recovering well. You came to check on your own condition without admitting weakness to your people."

A slight smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You see clearly for a human."

"I see clearly because I'm a healer. Sit down before you fall down."

He considers protesting, but another wave of fever-induced dizziness decides for him. He settles heavily on the stone ledge that borders the largest pool, armor clanking against granite.

I approach cautiously, maintaining a professional distance while assessing his condition. The infection has spread beyond the original wound site, with red lines tracing up his neck beneath the ceremonial torque, and his skin radiating heat that has nothing to do with exertion.

"I need to see the wound," I say, keeping my voice clinically neutral. "The armor has to come off."

"That's not..." He objects, then catches himself. "Clan tradition requires..."

"Clan tradition will be irrelevant if you die from blood poisoning. Remove the armor, or I'll call for your warriors to help me cut it off."

The threat of public humiliation proves more persuasive than medical necessity. He unfastens the leather and iron pauldron with movements that reveal how much pain he's concealing. The ceremonial torque follows, revealing more of the intricate tattoo work that covers his throat and collarbone.

The wound underneath is worse than I feared. What should have been healing cleanly has become a festering mess of infected tissue, the edges inflamed and weeping. No wonder he's fevered. His body is fighting a losing battle against the poison spreading through his system.

"Into the pool," I command, pointing to the eastern spring. "The mineral content will help draw out the infection."

"I'm not?—"

"You're not getting in the healing waters because of pride? Because you think I'll take advantage of your vulnerability?" I fix him with my sternest healer's stare. "I've seen infected wounds kill warriors twice your size. Into the pool. Now."

The authority in my voice finally breaks through his resistance.

He strips away the remaining armor and undergarments with mechanical efficiency, revealing the full extent of the tattoos that mark his skin.

Braided beasts and mountain glyphs flow across shoulders and chest that tell stories I can't yet read, but their artistic complexity speaks of deep cultural significance.

He lowers himself into the pool with a sharp intake of breath, the mineral-rich water contacting infected tissue. Steam rises from the surface where his fevered skin meets the cooler spring water.

"Lean back," I instruct, moving to kneel behind his position at the pool's edge. "Let the water support your weight while I clean the wound."

I gather supplies from my healer's satchel, a clean cloth, a small knife for debridement, and a packet of herbs I've been saving for emergencies. But as I prepare to begin conventional treatment, something else calls to my attention.

The pulse of stone magic grows stronger near the pool, as if responding to someone significant. The water itself seems to shimmer with more than reflected light, carrying currents of energy that flow around Drokhan's massive frame.

This is the moment. The choice between safe, conventional healing and the forbidden practices my mother documented in her secret journals. Practices that worked with elemental magic rather than fighting against natural forces.

I place my hand on his uninjured shoulder, feeling the fever-heat radiating through his skin. "I'm going to try something different. An old healing technique that might help."

"Different how?"

"Different in that my people would call it heretical if they knew I'd learned it." I dip my free hand into the pool, feeling the water's mineral-rich warmth flow between my fingers. "My mother studied your people's healing traditions, including practices that predate the current conflicts we face."

He turns his head slightly, amber eyes meeting mine with renewed interest. "What kind of practices?"

"The kind that recognize elemental magic as a tool for healing rather than a source of fear." I cup water in my palm, letting it flow back into the pool that follows the stone's pulse. "If you're willing to trust me."

The inquiry suspends itself amid us as trust transcends political boundaries, cultural prejudices, and that I'm still technically his captive. Trust based on nothing more than my demonstrated competence and his desperate need for healing that conventional methods might not provide.

"Do it," he says finally.

I begin with the water itself, cupping it in both hands and allowing the mineral warmth to flow over the infected wound. But instead of simply using it as a cleaning agent, I focus on the pulse I feel, trying to synchronize my movements with that deeper rhythm.

Breathe with the mountain's heartbeat. Let the elements guide rather than forcing them to obey.

The words come from memory with my mother's voice reading from journals she thought I was too young to understand. But the understanding comes now, flowing through my hands into the infected tissue.

I chant low words in a language that predates current Orc dialects but carries the cadence of their ancestral prayers. My mother transcribed these syllables phonetically, unsure of their exact meaning but certain of their therapeutic effect.

" Thek mora valash, stengar thul nara. Valash stengar, thul nara keth. "

The words feel strange, but their rhythm matches the pulse flowing in the stone. The pool water swirls in subtle patterns around Drokhan's body, carrying currents of warmth to penetrate deeper than simple heat.

" Mora stengar, valash thul. Nara keth mora, stengar valash. "

His breathing deepens, fever-tension beginning to ease from his shoulders and neck. The infection still needs conventional treatment with herbs and careful wound care, but the elemental magic flowing through the water provides a foundation for healing that purely human medicine couldn't achieve.

I continue the chant while cleaning the wound with methodical precision, removing infected tissue and applying herbal poultices.

But the actual work happens on a level beyond physical intervention, where elemental forces combine with medical knowledge to create possibilities that neither tradition could accomplish alone.

"Where did you learn those words?" he asks, voice rough with exhaustion but no longer strained with fever.

"My mother's journals. She believed healing traditions shouldn't be lost simply because of political conflicts between peoples.

" I rinse the cleaned wound with spring water, watching as the mineral content helps seal the treated tissue.

"She collected knowledge from many sources, including Orc healers who traded with humans before the current wars began. "

"Those words are from the deep caves," he says, settling back against the pool's stone edge. "Blessings spoken over warriors before they entered the sacred depths. I haven't heard them since I was a child."