Page 23 of Bound By Blood (Orc Warrior Romances #1)

EIRIAN

F reedom tastes like mountain air and possibility.

Drokhan leads me up the narrow stone steps that spiral along the fortress's inner wall, past guard posts where sentries nod respectfully rather than eye me with suspicion. My healer's satchel bounces against my hip with each step, the familiar weight grounding me in this strange new reality.

"Here." He stops beside a sturdy canvas pavilion stretched between two crenellated towers, its entrance facing east toward the sunrise. "Your own space. No bars, no guards watching your sleep."

True freedom. The concept still feels foreign after weeks of confinement, however comfortable that confinement became.

I duck through the tent flap and gasp.Drokhan has arranged everything with careful attention to my needs.

A low table holds my mortar and pestle, cleaned and polished.

Clay jars line wooden shelves, filled with dried herbs I recognize and others that remain mysteries.

A sleeping pallet spreads thick furs over soft moss, while oil lamps provide steady light for detailed work.

"The battlement walkway connects to the healing grotto," he explains, settling his massive frame carefully on a reinforced stool. "Five minutes' walk when duty calls. But this…" He gestures at the tent's interior. "…belongs to you alone."

Mine. Such a simple word, yet it carries profound weight. Ownership, autonomy, the right to privacy and personal space that I've almost forgotten existed.

"Thank you." The words feel inadequate, but his expression suggests he understands their deeper meaning.

"You earned it. Through service, through courage, through choosing to stay when leaving became possible."

When did leaving become possible? The question hovers unspoken between us, but I think I know the answer.

Sometime between our first kiss and this morning's battle, between learning to trust his protection and choosing to fight beside his people, I crossed an invisible line from captive to willing resident.

From prisoner to partner.

He rises, pausing at the tent entrance. "Rest. Eat. The evening meal will be brought to you, but tomorrow you join the clan council as my chosen advisor."

Advisor. Another step forward, another acknowledgment of my value beyond healing skills and diplomatic potential.

After his footsteps fade down the stone stairs, I light several oil lamps and settle at the worktable with my satchel. Time to catalog my remaining supplies and plan for future needs. But first...

The obsidian-ink scroll crinkles as I unroll it across the table's surface. I've carried this scrap of parchment since the day of my capture, hidden beneath layers of bandages and hope. Now finally I have privacy and light enough for proper examination.

Mother's handwriting. I recognize the careful script despite its cramped appearance, each letter formed with the precision she brought to all her healing work. But why obsidian ink? The substance is expensive, difficult to work with, and prone to fading unless treated with specific preservatives.

Unless durability isn't the point. Unless the ink itself contains the message.

I fetch a magnifying lens from my supplies and lean closer. Under enhanced scrutiny, the text reveals layers I missed before. Certain letters appear darker than others, standing out like whispered secrets against the parchment's pale surface.

A cipher. Of course. Mother always loved puzzles, claiming they sharpened diagnostic thinking by forcing consideration of hidden patterns and unexpected connections.

I copy the darker letters onto a fresh sheet, arranging them in the order they appear:

T-H-R-E-E-S-T-O-N-E-S-N-O-R-T-H-O-F-S-P-R-I-N-G-W-H-E-R-E-A-N-C-E-S-T-O-R-S-S-L-E-E-P

Three stones north of spring where ancestors sleep.

My hands shake as I decode the rest, letter by careful letter:

Crown of the First Chief lies beneath the watching eagle. Bring flame and iron. Trust the mountain's heart.

Crown of the First Chief. The founding artifact of the Stoneborn Clan, lost during the great retreat seventy years ago when human forces pushed deep into Orc territory. Legend claims it holds the power to unite all highland clans under a single banner.

The power to end this war. Either through conquest or through negotiated peace backed by undisputed authority.

How did Mother learn this location? When did she encode it, and why leave such dangerous knowledge with me? Questions multiply like ripples in still water, each one leading to deeper mysteries.

I study the decoded message again, memorizing every word before rolling both scrolls carefully and hiding them beneath my sleeping furs. This information is valuable enough to reshape the entire conflict, dangerous enough to get me killed by either side if mishandled.

I need to tell Drokhan.

The thought emerges without conscious consideration, immediate and certain as breathing. Not because duty demands it, not because political necessity requires honesty between allies. I trust him with secrets that could destroy his people or elevate them beyond their wildest ambitions.

Because I love him. The admission still feels new, like standing at the edge of a cliff and choosing to leap rather than retreat to safer ground.

The evening meal arrives as promised, roasted venison with root vegetables, fresh bread, and spring water flavored with mint. I eat mechanically, my mind occupied with plans and possibilities, with the knowledge and its implications.

Tomorrow's council meeting will change everything. But first, I need to share this burden with the one person whose judgment I trust completely.

Darkness settles over the fortress as I descend the spiral stairs, making my way through familiar corridors toward Drokhan's private chambers. Guards nod respectfully as I pass, their acceptance of my presence still surprising after weeks of careful negotiation.

I find him at his desk, studying reports by lamplight, his topknot freed to let dark hair fall loose around his shoulders. Without the formal armor and ceremonial torque, he looks younger, more approachable—though no less formidable.

"Eirian." He looks up as I enter, genuine pleasure warming his expression. "Restless already? The tent not to your liking?"

"The tent is perfect." I settle on the bench beside his desk, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his massive frame. "But I need to show you something. Something that could change the war's entire trajectory."

His attention sharpens immediately, amber eyes focusing with predatory intensity. Not alarmed, but alert to danger and opportunity in equal measure.

"Show me."

I produce the scrolls, explaining the cipher and its decoded message while his expression grows increasingly grave. He asks few questions, absorbing information with the same systematic thoroughness he brings to military planning.

"Crown of the First Chief," he murmurs when I finish. "My grandfather spoke of it sometimes, usually when deep in his cups. Called it the weight that broke lesser shoulders."

"You believe it exists?"

"Something exists. Whether it's a physical crown or something else entirely..." He shrugs, the gesture sending muscles rippling beneath his shirt. "Power takes many forms. Unity of purpose can be more valuable than gold or steel."

Practical wisdom. He's right, of course. The crown's symbolic value might outweigh any magical properties attributed to it by legend and hope.

"Your mother encoded this information. Hidden it carefully and entrusted it to you." His gaze holds mine steadily. "The question becomes: what did she expect you to do with it?"

End the war. The answer arrives fully formed, accompanied by memories of Mother's quiet sadness whenever reports of border raids reached our household. Her careful neutrality during political discussions, her insistence on treating all wounded regardless of their allegiances.

"She wanted peace," I say slowly. "Real peace, not just the absence of active warfare. She saw the cost in human terms with wounded soldiers, grieving families, children growing up knowing only conflict and hatred."

"And she believed this artifact could provide that peace?"

"I think she believed it could provide the authority necessary to negotiate from a position of strength. To unite the clans behind a leader wise enough to choose diplomacy over conquest."

Behind you. The unspoken words hang between us, heavy with implication and trust.

His laugh carries no humor, only grim recognition. "You're asking me to become something I never wanted to be. A high chief, responsible for more than my clan's welfare."

"I'm sharing information. What you do with it remains your choice."

But I know what I hope you'll choose. He sees that hope in my expression, reads it as clearly as he reads battlefield terrain or clan politics.

"The location, do you understand the geographical references?"

I nod, having spent hours studying the healing grotto's layout and its connections to the broader cave system. "North of the main spring, where the burial chambers begin. There's a section I haven't explored, sealed off by rockfall and marked with warning symbols."

"Ancestor's Rest." His voice carries reverence tinged with unease. "Sacred ground, forbidden to the living except during formal ceremonies. Even then, only clan elders may enter."

"Will they object to you searching for the crown?"

Will they object to me accompanying that search? Because I refuse to be left behind, not when I'm the only one who knows the specific location markers encoded in Mother's message.

"They'll object to everything about this plan." He stands, beginning to pace the chamber's limited space. "But they'll also recognize the crown's significance if we actually find it."

If. Such a small word for such enormous uncertainty.