Page 17 of Bound By Blood (Orc Warrior Romances #1)

DROKHAN

S leep eludes me.

The council's words echo through my skull like hammering on anvil steel: spirit-bond, formal binding, three days . But underneath their political weight lies something far more dangerous. The memory of her hands on my fevered skin, the way her eyes widened when power flowed between us.

Dangerous territory, old fool.

I rise from my sleeping furs and pace the chief's chamber, bare feet silent on stone worn smooth by generations of restless leaders.

Through the narrow window, moonlight spills across the stronghold's terraced levels like molten silver.

The night air carries mountain pine and the distant sulfur whisper of the healing springs.

Three days until she must choose. Three days to let politics and tradition dictate what my heart already knows.

Since when did you consult your heart about anything?

The question stings because it's fair. For twenty years, I've led through calculated decisions and iron discipline. Personal desires get subordinated to clan needs. Individual connection matters less than collective survival.

But tonight, those principles feel like chains.

I strap on my ceremonial torque and shoulder harness, not bothering with full armor. If I'm going to make a fool of myself, I'll do it honestly. The passage between my chamber and hers winds through the stronghold's heart, past sleeping quarters where my warriors rest between patrols.

What are you planning to tell her? That you felt something unprecedented when she touched you? That you want to explore that connection regardless of political consequences?

The truth, apparently. Even if it complicates everything.

Her chamber's entrance lies behind a curtain of woven mountain grass, private but not secured. I announce myself with a soft knock against the stone doorway.

"Lady Eirian? Are you wakeful?"

"Chief Drokhan." Her voice carries no surprise, as if she expected this visit. "Please, enter."

The oil lamp burns low, casting her chamber in amber shadows. She sits cross-legged on her cot, still wearing the healing robes from this afternoon but with her hair unbraided, falling in chestnut waves around her shoulders. The journal lies open across her knees.

"You couldn't sleep either."

"Too many questions." She closes the journal and sets it aside. "Too many choices that feel impossible to make rationally."

Impossible to make rationally. There's the crux of it. Reason argues for maintaining distance, protecting both our positions until the council reaches its decision. But reason didn't create the heat that flowed between us beside that steaming pool.

"I have a proposal," I say, settling onto the chamber's single chair. "Something that might provide clarity."

"I'm listening."

"There's a place within the grotto system that few know about. A moonlit spring hidden beneath a vine-cradled arch, where the mountain's heart-stone meets surface water. The elders use it for vision quests and spiritual consultation."

She studies my face, searching for hidden meaning. "You're suggesting we seek guidance from the springs themselves."

"I'm suggesting we explore what happened between us today, away from political pressure and cultural expectations. If the connection was merely circumstantial, the neutral setting will reveal that truth. If it represents something deeper..."

"We'll discover that as well." She rises from the cot, graceful despite obvious exhaustion. "When would we go?"

"Now. The moon reaches full brightness at midnight, which grants the spring its greatest spiritual potency. And privacy, no one else will venture there during the dark hours."

No one else will witness whatever passes between us, whether profound spiritual alliance or embarrassing miscalculation.

She retrieves her healer's satchel and the small bundle of belongings she's accumulated during her captivity. "Lead the way, Chief Drokhan."

The passage between her chamber and the hidden spring winds into the mountain than she's yet traveled, past storage caverns and meditation alcoves carved from living rock. Our footsteps echo softly in the narrow tunnels, accompanied by the distant whisper of underground water.

"How long have your people used these springs?" she asks as we navigate a steep descent.

"Since the first Stoneborn sought shelter in these mountains. My ancestors discovered that certain combinations of mineral-rich water and volcanic stone could enhance spiritual awareness, accelerate healing, and occasionally grant visions of futures."

"Your mother would have known about this place."

The observation catches me off-guard. "How did you know about my mother?"

"The scarred elder mentioned her during our conversation after the council meeting. She said your mother was a renowned healer who understood the connection between physical wellness and spiritual balance."

Of course, they discussed my family history. The elders want her to understand what she's considering binding herself to.

"My mother died defending this stronghold when I was barely old enough to hold a blade," I say. "But yes, she was gifted with springs-knowledge. She taught me that healing involves more than treating symptoms, true wellness requires addressing the spirit and the body."

"That philosophy matches what my mother believed. She studied healing traditions from many cultures, including yours."

Including ours. The casual way she says it suggests she's already begun thinking of Orc practices as something she might claim rather than simply observe.

We reach the vine-cradled arch, where moonlight streams through a natural opening in the cavern ceiling to illuminate a pool of perfectly still water.

The spring sits in a circular chamber carved from black volcanic glass, with walls that reflect light like dark mirrors.

Steam rises from the water's surface, carrying minerals and mountain herbs.

"Beautiful," she breathes.

Beautiful and sacred. This place has witnessed countless ceremonies: initiation rites, leadership transitions, spiritual consultations that shaped clan policy for generations. But I've never brought another person here for purely personal reasons.

Until tonight.

"The ritual requires removing outer garments," I explain, unfastening my shoulder harness and letting it fall to the stone floor. "The spring's spiritual properties work best when there are minimal barriers between person and element."

She nods and unwraps her healing shawl, revealing bare arms marked with tattoos I've never seen before. Delicate ink work covers her shoulders and upper arms: intertwining willow branches that cradle a chalice, done in green and silver inks that shimmer in the moonlight.

Sacred markings. She's not merely a healer. She holds formal religious rank within her own tradition.

"Your tattoos," I say. "They indicate spiritual authority."

"Third-degree herbalist and consecrated water-tender," she confirms, stepping closer to the pool's edge. "I was marked during my twentieth year, after completing advanced training in both medicine and religious duties."

Water-tender. That explains her instinctive understanding of the healing pool's properties, her ability to channel its power effectively. She's not an amateur dabbling in unfamiliar practices—she's a trained practitioner working with elements she recognizes.

She reaches into her satchel and withdraws six black candles shaped from what appears to be volcanic glass. "May I light a circle? The ceremony will be more effective with proper preparation."

"Of course."

She places the obsidian candles around the pool's perimeter, spacing them at equal intervals. When lit, they cast flowing shadows across the chamber walls and fill the air with mountain sage. The candlelight transforms the spring into something that feels more like an altar than a simple pool.

She knows exactly what she's doing.

I remove my boots and roll up my trouser legs, then step into the warm water. It reaches mid-calf, heated by deep thermal currents that originate far below the mountain's surface. She follows, lifting her robes to keep them dry.

"The connection we felt this afternoon," I say. "I need to understand if it was real or simply the result of unusual circumstances."

"As do I." She moves closer until we stand arm's length apart, the steaming water lapping around our ankles. "But I should warn you, if the connection proves genuine, it will change everything between us."

Change everything. The possibility both thrills and terrifies me. Years of careful emotional discipline, years of keeping personal desires subordinate to political necessities, could dissolve in a single moment of authentic connection.

Do you want that?

Looking into her storm-grey eyes, moonlight reflecting off the water between us, I realize the answer was never in doubt.

"I'm willing to accept that risk," I say.

She steps closer, near enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her skin. "Then let's discover the truth."

Her hands rise to frame my face, fingertips tracing the ceremonial scarification along my jawline. The touch ignites something deep in my chest—not mere physical attraction, but recognition. As if some fundamental part of me had been waiting for this exact moment, this precise connection.

Recognition.

My hands find her waist, pulling her closer until our bodies almost touch. The water swirls around our legs, disturbed by our movement, but the sound fades beneath the thundering of my pulse.

"Eirian," I whisper.

"Drokhan."

When our lips meet, the world catches fire.

Heat explodes through the chamber like a forge blast, radiating from the point where our bodies connect. The obsidian candles flare brighter, their flames stretching toward the cavern ceiling. Steam billows from the pool's surface as the water temperature spikes.

Fifth Flame origin sequence. Kheval awakening glyphs.