Page 22 of Bound By Blood (Orc Warrior Romances #1)

Wisdom. Another lesson Grashak taught: victory's price must be paid before victory's rewards can be claimed.

But as I survey our improvised army, Orc and human, healer and warrior, bound by shared blood and common cause. I feel hope. Real hope, built on a foundation strong enough to bear the dreams.

Maybe binding won't burn everything after all.

The spring water tastes of copper and stone, but after battle, even mountain-cold water feels like the finest ale. I rinse blood from my knuckles, watching crimson tendrils spiral away into crystal depths.

Around the healing spring, an unlikely gathering takes shape.

Gorth tends a gash across his ribs while Lady Jazmin methodically cleans her borrowed sword.

Lord Edran sits heavily on a moss-covered boulder, his ceremonial guard captain's armor dented but intact.

The old man fought well for someone more accustomed to parade formations than real steel.

Strange. An hour ago, these humans were strangers. Now they're...

What? Allies? Battle-brothers? The Orcish word keth-mor comes closest, those who've shared blood in defense of hearth and kin. But no human tongue holds adequate translation for bonds forged in life-or-death trust.

Eirian emerges from the deeper grotto, her healing work finished for now. She's changed from her blood-splattered robes into a simple green tunic that brings out the storm-grey of her eyes. Her hair, usually so precisely braided, hangs loose around her shoulders.

Beautiful. The thought comes unbidden, accompanied by a rush of protective heat that has nothing to do with battle-lust and everything to do with the way she moves among our wounded, human and Orc alike, offering comfort without hesitation.

"How many did we lose?" I ask as she settles beside me on the spring's stone rim.

"Three. Garok, young Thesh, and..." Her voice catches slightly. "Mirin. She was barely sixteen."

Mirin. One of the healer apprentices who'd stepped forward when I asked who would fight. She'd held a kitchen pot for a shield and died protecting a fallen human guard from an Ironmaw blade.

"Her name will be carved in the memorial stone," I say quietly. "Beside the greatest warriors."

Eirian nods, understanding the honor in that. Among Orcs, the memorial stone doesn't distinguish between death in glorious single combat or death holding a shield wall. Courage is courage, regardless of the weapon that channels it.

Lady Jazmin approaches with a leather flask, her movements careful but not fearful. Fear would be understandable after what she's witnessed, but this woman possesses the steel that bends without breaking.

"Dwarven brandy," she says, offering the flask. "From my late husband's private stores. Seemed appropriate for the occasion."

I accept the offering, taste the liquid fire, and pass it on. The flask moves around our circle, Orc to human to Orc again, each drink a wordless acknowledgment of shared survival.

Ritual emerging from necessity. How many clan traditions started exactly this way? A moment of quiet recognition between those who'd stood together when standing alone meant death.

"Never thought I'd share drink with Orcs," Lord Edran says, not with malice but with the honesty of exhaustion. "Never thought I'd fight beside them either."

"First time for everything," Gorth rumbles, accepting the flask from Edran's weathered hands. "You swing a decent blade for a ceremony soldier."

"Ceremonial officer ," Edran corrects with mild offense, then catches himself and almost smiles. "Though I suppose after today, the distinction matters less."

The spring bubbles softly around us, its mineral-rich waters carrying away the day's blood and grime. Steam rises where heated stone meets cool air, creating shifting veils of mist that soften harsh edges and make everything seem dreamlike.

Not a dream, though. Real. All of it.

Eirian's hand finds mine beneath the water's surface, fingers intertwining with casual intimacy that somehow feels more profound than our passionate encounter in the moonlit chamber. This touch speaks of choice made in full awareness, with witnesses, without the excuse of overwhelming desire.

She's claiming me. Publicly.

The realization should terrify me. Chief of the Stoneborn Clan, bound to a human healer while her noble family watches. Political suicide, if viewed through the lens of traditional clan politics.

But watching Lady Jazmin methodically sharpen her blade on a whetstone she's borrowed from one of my warriors, I wonder if traditional politics died today along with Ironmaw ambitions. The world shifts beneath our feet, and those who refuse to shift with it get buried under change.

"Gorthak won't give up easily," I say, breaking the comfortable silence. "Today was testing, not full commitment. He'll return with more fighters."

"How many more?" Jazmin asks without looking up from her blade-work.

"As many as he can gather without leaving his own territory undefended. Sixty, perhaps seventy." I calculate quickly, drawing on intelligence reports and old knowledge of Ironmaw capabilities. "But not for several weeks. Time enough to prepare."

"Prepare how?" Edran sets down the flask, his expression thoughtful rather than panicked. "My guards fought well today, but six men won't hold against seventy."

Interesting. He's thinking strategy, not escape. Something stronger has overwhelmed whatever fear drove him here. Pride, perhaps, or paternal protectiveness. Maybe just the warrior's satisfaction of testing himself against real danger and discovering he doesn't break easily.

"Alliance," Eirian says quietly. "Not just between our clans, but everyone."

It’s a misty air incantation. Alliance. Not treaty or truce or temporary cooperation, but the deep binding that makes separate tribes into single nations.

Ambitious. Also dangerous, revolutionary, and probably insane.

Also necessary.

"The Church won't approve," Jazmin says carefully. "Formal alliance with Orc clans would be considered..." She searches for diplomatic phrasing. "Theologically problematic."

"The Church isn't here," Eirian replies with quiet firmness. His eyes land on his daughter and her hand in mine. "And theology didn't save us today. Shared courage did."

She's learning. The sheltered noble lady who arrived as my captive is discovering the difference between abstract principle and lived reality. Battle accelerates that education in ways no amount of religious instruction can match.

Lord Edran clears his throat. "Speaking practically, what would such an alliance entail? Beyond mutual defense, I mean."

Practical. Good. We can work with practical.

"Trade agreements. Shared patrol routes along the border. Coordinated response to raiders like the Ironmaw." I tick off possibilities on scarred fingers. "Cultural exchange. Learning opportunities for both peoples."

"Intermarriage?" Jazmin asks with studied casualness.

Eirian's fingers tighten around mine. Her pulse quickens beneath my thumb.

Intermarriage. The logical culmination of alliance, the binding that makes political agreement personal. Royal marriages have sealed treaties for centuries, but those were usually matters of state expediency between compatible cultures.

This would be different. Unprecedented. Human nobles marrying Orc chiefs, creating blood ties between peoples who've spent generations viewing each other as barely civilized enemies.

"Theoretically possible," I say slowly. "If both parties consent freely and the alliance proves stable."

Diplomatic non-answer. Grashak would approve.

But Eirian's eyes flash with something that might be disappointment or anger. She releases my hand, losing contact somehow more jarring than the earlier blade-wounds.

"Theoretically?" Her voice contains dangerous undertones. "Is that what this is? A theoretical exercise in diplomatic relations?"

Careful. Whatever I say next will echo through her family's evaluation of our bond, through my clan's understanding of my commitment, through every future negotiation.

Also, it matters to her. More than politics or strategy or clan advantage. It matters to her.

"Nothing about this is theoretical." I meet her storm-grey gaze directly, letting her see past the chieftain's mask to the man beneath. "I asked what I have that others don't. The answer is you. Your trust, your partnership, your choice to stand with me when standing apart would be easier."

The admission costs me, vulnerability always does, but her expression softens into something warmer than relief. Understanding, perhaps. Recognition of truth offered without calculation.

"Pretty words," Gorth says with gruff amusement. "But the lady asked about marriage, not partnership."

Gorth, you magnificent bastard. Trust my lieutenant to cut through diplomatic dancing and force the issue into the open.

Eirian turns to face me fully, water swirling around her waist as she moves. "Well? Is he right? Are we talking about partnership or something more binding?"

Binding. That word again, carrying weight beyond its simple meaning. Among Orcs, binding is permanent, sacred, witnessed by clan and ancestors alike. It's not entered into lightly or dissolved easily.

Marriage is the human equivalent, but marriage can be annulled, set aside, forgotten when politically convenient. Binding endures until death claims one or both parties.

"Binding," I say simply. "If you'll have me."

Her smile starts small and spreads like sunrise across her features. "Yes."

That's it? No negotiation, no conditions, no careful consideration of political ramifications? Just yes , offered with the same calm certainty she brings to her healing work.

Maybe that's what makes it real. The simplicity.

Lady Jazmin clears her throat delicately. "While I appreciate romantic spontaneity, perhaps we should discuss practical arrangements. Ceremonial requirements, property settlements, succession issues..."

"Later," Eirian says without taking her eyes off mine. "Right now, we celebrate survival and honor the dead. Politics can wait until tomorrow."

Wisdom again. But also instinct, the recognition that some moments demand acknowledgment before they disappear under practical necessity.

I reach for the flask, raise it in formal salute. "To the fallen. May their courage echo through eternity."

"To the fallen," the others echo, each taking the ritual drink.

"To new alliances," Lord Edran adds, surprising everyone, including himself.

"To family," Eirian says simply.

Family. The word encompasses everything, birth-kin and chosen-kin, blood-bonds and heart-bonds, the complicated web of loyalty and obligation that makes life worth defending.

As the flask completes its circuit, I study the faces around our circle. These people fought for each other today, bled together, shared the intimate terror and triumph that transforms strangers into kinfolk.

This is how it starts. Not with treaties or ceremonies or diplomatic protocols, but with moments like this—battle-weary survivors sharing drink and honest words beside healing waters.

This is how everything changes.

The mist thickens around us as evening approaches, creating a private world within the larger cave system. Someone hums one of the healing songs Eirian taught her apprentices, and others join in, creating harmonies that blend human and Orcish musical traditions into something entirely new.

Beautiful. Not perfect, not polished, but real in ways that matter more than technical precision.

I lean back against sun-warmed stone, Eirian's shoulder pressed against mine, and allow myself a moment of simple contentment. Tomorrow will bring challenges, complications, and the endless work of building something unprecedented from the raw materials of mutual respect and shared purpose.

Tonight, we rest.

The spring continues its eternal bubbling, carrying away blood and doubt in equal measure, while above us, stars begin their ancient dance across stone-framed sky.