Page 28 of Bound By Blood (Orc Warrior Romances #1)

DROKHAN

T he war drums fall silent as twilight claims the vale, but victory tastes different when earned through magic rather than steel.

I watch Eirian tend the last of our wounded, her movements efficient despite the exhaustion that pools beneath her eyes like shadows.

The totem's glow has faded to barely a whisper, tucked safely against her ribs, but its power still hums through the air like the memory of thunder.

"Chief." Gorthak approaches, his scarred face unreadable. Blood streaks his armor from the day's fighting, but his eyes hold something I haven't seen in years of campaigning together. Wonder. "The elders request your presence. And hers."

Of course. They now know she possesses the ancient totem. Nothing gets by them. They saw her wield it and win the battle.

I follow his gaze to where Eirian kneels beside young Thurok, whose leg nearly cost him his warrior-name today.

She's wrapped the shattered bone with splints carved from enemy spears, turning instruments of war into tools of healing.

Even wounded, the boy grins at her with the fierce joy of someone who expected to die and found life instead.

"The Echo Spirit Rite?" I ask.

"Unanimous vote. Even Malthorn agreed, though he grumbled about precedent." Gorthak's weathered features crack into something approaching a smile. "She saved half the clan today, Chief. Magic or not, that earns recognition."

Recognition. The word carries weight in our tongue that human languages lack. To be recognized by the clan means more than acceptance. It means belonging carved in stone and sealed with blood-oath. It means family.

"Tell the elders we'll come when she's finished." I pause, watching her gentle hands guide Thurok through breathing exercises that ease pain without dulling warrior-spirit. "And Gorthak? Prepare the sacred grove. If we're doing this, we do it properly."

He nods and melts back into the camp's controlled chaos.

Around us, the business of victory proceeds: weapons cleaned, wounded tended, enemy dead given proper rites according to the old laws.

No Orc celebrates triumph by desecrating the fallen.

Death deserves honor, regardless of which clan claims the corpse.

I settle beside Eirian as she finishes with Thurok. The boy struggles to his feet, testing his weight on the splinted leg with typical Orc stubbornness.

"Three days rest," she tells him firmly. "No arguing. I've seen what happens when warriors ignore healer's orders."

"Yes, Stoneborn Sister." The title slips from his lips naturally, as if she's always belonged among us.

Eirian's breath catches at the words. In our language, 'sister' means something deeper than human family bonds. It means chosen kinship, earned through shared blood and mutual sacrifice. It means a permanent place in the clan's heart.

"The elders want to see you," I tell her once Thurok limps away. "Both of us."

"About what happened today? With the totem?"

"About what it means. What you've become." I help her to her feet, noting how her fingers immediately seek the totem's hidden warmth. The artifact has bonded with her in ways none of us fully understand. "They want to grant you the Echo Spirit Rite."

She's quiet for a long moment, absorbing the implications. I can see her mind working through possibilities, calculating consequences with the same careful precision she applies to mixing healing draughts.

"What does that involve?" she asks finally.

"Blood. Fire. Words that bind deeper than marriage or war-oath." I pause, meeting her steady gaze. "It makes you Stoneborn in truth, not just in name. It means the clan's enemies become your enemies. Our dead become your honored ancestors. Our children become yours to protect."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you remain honored guest and cherished companion." The word feels inadequate for what she's become to me, to us all. "But Eirian, after today, after what you did with the totem, there's no going back to simple captivity. You've proven yourself clan-blood in everything but ceremony."

She nods slowly, understanding the choice laid before her. Accept the rite and claim Orc identity permanently, or maintain her human heritage while navigating the complex loyalties that entails.

"When?" she asks.

"Now. While the victory-fire burns and the gods are listening."

We walk through camp toward the sacred grove, passing warriors who straighten as we approach.

Some offer the fist-to-heart salute reserved for clan heroes.

Others simply watch with expressions that blend respect and curiosity.

Word of the day's events has spread, growing in the telling as all battlefield stories do.

The grove lies in a natural depression surrounded by standing stones carved with clan histories.

Torches planted between the monoliths cast dancing shadows across faces both familiar and strange.

The full council has assembled with elders, war-leaders, priestesses, even the younglings whose warrior-trials await next season.

Elder Korrath steps forward, his ancient frame draped in ceremonial robes that predate my grandfather's time. The bone staff in his gnarled hands bears the carved names of every Stoneborn granted Echo Spirit status in living memory. Seven names in three generations.

"Eirian of House Thorne," his voices is strong across the grove with surprising strength. "You stand before the Stoneborn Clan having earned recognition through deed and sacrifice. Do you come willingly to claim your place among us?"

"I do." Her voice never wavers, though I see her hands tremble slightly. Fear or anticipation, perhaps both.

"Then speak your intent before stone and fire, that the ancestors may judge your heart."

Eirian steps into the circle's center, torchlight painting gold highlights in her chestnut hair. When she speaks, her words carry the careful cadence of someone who's thought deeply about their meaning.

"I came to your lands as enemy, stranger, outsider.

Through your mercy and patience, I learned that strength comes not from conquest but from connection.

That healing and harming spring from the same source—choice.

" She pauses, one hand drifting to touch the hidden totem.

"I choose to heal. I choose to serve the clan that showed me family can be forged from unlikely materials.

I choose to be Stoneborn, if you'll have me. "

Grimjaw raises his staff, pointing it toward the largest standing stone where our ancestor-spirits allegedly whisper judgment to those who know how to listen. Silence stretches through heartbeats that feel like hours.

"The stones accept you," he announces finally. "Let blood seal what words have spoken."

The ceremony unfolds with ancient precision.

Sacred oils anoint her forehead while priestesses chant genealogies that stretch back to the clan's founding.

A shallow cut across her palm lets blood drip onto soil where our greatest heroes' ashes were scattered.

Fire blooms from seemingly cold wood as if the gods themselves approve.

But the moment that changes everything comes when Grimjaw presses a brand shaped like our clan-mark against her shoulder.

The iron heated in sacred flame should burn flesh and leave permanent scarring.

Instead, it glows without causing pain, leaving behind a mark that shimmers like polished obsidian.

"Stoneborn Healer," he intones with satisfaction that borders on smugness. "The ancestors have spoken clearly. You belong among us, daughter of healing and peace."

Daughter. The word resonates through the grove, carried on voices both young and old. Around the circle, clan members repeat her new name until it becomes a chant, a song, a recognition that finds its way into the stars above.

Something shifts inside my chest as I observe her accept congratulations from warriors who would have executed her without hesitation mere weeks ago. Pride. Relief. She's chosen us, chosen this life, chosen permanence in a world where everything else feels temporary.

The ceremony concludes with ritual sharing of blood-wine and honeyed bread, but before we can fully settle into celebration, scouts arrive with news that changes the evening's tone entirely.

"Human envoys approaching under peace banners," the lead scout reports. "Three riders, well-armed but making no hostile moves. They carry parley-sticks and royal seals."

I exchange glances with Eirian, seeing understanding pass between us. Word of today's battle has traveled fast, and someone with authority wants to discuss terms before the situation escalates beyond control. Her family, making it fact with the House Thorne.

"How long until they arrive?" I ask.

"Dawn, if they maintain current pace."

"Good. That gives us time to prepare." I turn to address the assembled clan. "The celebration continues, but quietly. Tomorrow we face diplomacy rather than warfare. Rest well and dream of peace, but keep weapons close."

The grove slowly empties as families drift back toward cooking fires and sleeping furs. I remain with Eirian, both of us lost in thought as we stare into flames that have witnessed countless ceremonies over generations.

"No going back now," she murmurs, touching the clan-mark that decorates her shoulder.

"Regrets?"

"No." Her answer comes without hesitation. "But tomorrow will be complicated. Speaking for the clan while remaining true to what I believe."

"What do you believe?"

"That mercy and strength aren't opposites. That peace can be won without destroying those you defeat." She shifts closer, seeking warmth from both fire and companionship. "What do you think they want?"