Page 31 of Bound By Blood (Orc Warrior Romances #1)
EIRIAN
T he approach to House Thorne's ancestral seat feels like traveling backwards through time.
Each familiar landmark with the twin oak guardians marking our border, the limestone bridge spanning Crystal Creek, the terraced fields where I learned to identify healing herbs as a child, brings memories flooding back with uncomfortable intensity.
I ride beside Drokhan at the head of his war-band, acutely aware of how our presence must appear to watching eyes.
Twenty Orc warriors in ceremonial armor escort a human noblewoman home.
Three months ago, such a sight would have sent villagers fleeing in terror.
Today, they emerge from their cottages to line the road, faces painted with expressions I struggle to interpret.
Curiosity. Gratitude. Fear. Hope.
"Lady Eirian!" A young voice breaks through the crowd's murmur. Little Mara pushes past her mother's restraining hand, running toward our horses with the fearless enthusiasm only children possess. "You came back! Are you really a clan-daughter now?"
I dismount to kneel at her level, fighting unexpected emotion. Nine months ago, Mara lay dying of fever while I exhausted every traditional remedy in my healer's arsenal. Only my mother's hidden Orc tea, the one Father forbade me to use, finally broke her temperature.
"I'm still your healer," I tell her gently, not directly answering her question. "Still the same person who helped you feel better."
"But you look different." Her small fingers trace the air near my clan-marks, too polite to touch without permission. "Stronger."
Out of the mouths of babes. She's right, of course. I feel the difference in my posture, the way I carry myself with confidence earned through trials by fire. Even though my travel cloak may hide the willow and chalice tattoos, their presence radiates through my bearing like internal armor.
I explain, "Sometimes healing requires learning new ways," knowing that adults will repeat and analyze every word. "Sometimes the strongest medicine comes from unexpected sources."
Drokhan dismounts beside us, his massive frame somehow managing not to intimidate as he approaches. Mara's eyes widen with fascination rather than fear as she takes in his ancestral ink work, the copper-bound braids, the ceremonial torque that marks his status as war chief.
"Chief Drokhan of the Stoneborn Clan," I introduce formally. "This is Mara, one of our village's brightest flowers."
"An honor, young warrior." He has the gentle rumble he uses with clan children, respectful without condescension. "Your healer speaks truth about strength. She has proven herself worthy of the ancestors' blessing."
"Can I see your sword?" Mara asks with the directness that makes adults cringe.
"Mara!" Her mother finally catches up, face flushed with embarrassment and terror. "My lord, please forgive?—"
"Peace, good woman." Drokhan raises a hand, then carefully draws his ceremonial blade, not the brutal war-cleaver he carries into battle, but the ritual knife used for oaths and ceremonies.
Sunlight catches intricate etchings along the fuller as he holds it flat across his palms. "This blade has never tasted innocent blood.
It serves only to protect those who cannot protect themselves. "
The crowd presses closer, drawn by a curiosity stronger than caution.
I see farmers who lost sons to border raids standing beside mothers whose children Drokhan's healers saved during yesterday's evacuation.
Pain and gratitude war across weathered faces as they struggle to reconcile lifelong enemies with the warriors who bled defending their homes.
"Lady Eirian." An elderly voice cuts through the gathering murmur.
Master Willem, the village's senior healer, pushes forward on his walking stick.
His rheumy eyes take in my travel-stained robes, the subtle changes in my posture, the way Drokhan and I stand naturally within each other's space. "Your father awaits."
The words carry an unspoken warning. Prepare yourself.
"Then we shouldn't keep him waiting." I remount with fluid motion, muscle memory enhanced by weeks of Orc riding techniques. "Chief Drokhan, will you and your warriors accept House Thorne's hospitality?"
"With honor." His response follows diplomatic protocol, but I catch the slight tension around his eyes. He understands as well as I do that the coming hours will test bonds forged in combat and ceremony.
House Thorne's main keep rises from the valley floor like a limestone prayer, its towers reaching toward heaven with architectural grace with ancient faith and deeper roots.
Generations of my ancestors built these walls, tended these lands, healed these people.
The sight should bring comfort, should feel like homecoming.
Instead, it feels like returning to a place that no longer quite fits.
Father waits in the courtyard, flanked by household guards whose presence speaks more to ceremony than threat.
Lord Edran Thorne stands tall, silver-haired, radiating the dignity that comes from unquestioned authority and unshakeable faith.
His expression reveals nothing as we approach, but I know him well enough to read the subtle signs of strain around his eyes.
"Daughter. So good you come." He opens his arms, and I dismount to accept his embrace.
For a moment, surrounded by familiar scents of pipe smoke and leather, I'm just his little girl again, the child who learned herb-lore at his knee, who shared evening prayers in the family chapel, who never questioned the rightness of our way of life.
Then he steps back, and the mask slips slightly.
I see him taking inventory of changes three months have wrought: the clan-marks hidden beneath my sleeves, the confident bearing that comes from surviving trials beyond his experience, the way my gaze keeps returning to Drokhan with unmistakable affection.
"Lord Edran." Drokhan's voice carries formal respect as he approaches. "Chief Drokhan of the Stoneborn Clan greets the House of Thorne with honor."
"Chief Drokhan." Father's response maintains diplomatic neutrality, though I catch the slight emphasis on the title. Not creature or beast or any of the epithets normally applied to Orc leadership. "House Thorne acknowledges your service in protecting our daughter."
Service. The word is loaded with implications neither man will voice directly. Did Drokhan serve by rescuing me from rival clans? By honoring agreements that kept me safe? By accepting alliance terms that benefit both peoples?
Or does Father suspect the deeper truth, that what began as captivity became partnership, then love?
"Your daughter honors both our peoples," Drokhan replies carefully. "Her healing gifts and brave heart saved many lives during recent conflicts."
"So we have heard. So we saw at our last visit." Father's tone reveals nothing. "The tales of Lady Eirian's adventures have preceded her return."
Adventures. Another carefully chosen word that could mean anything from heroic deeds to scandal depending on interpretation. I step forward before the diplomatic dance can grow more strained.
"Father, we need to discuss the refugees from House Eillionne. Lord Beric's proposal offers an opportunity that could benefit everyone."
"Indeed." His gray eyes, so like my own, study my face with uncomfortable intensity. "Perhaps we should continue this conversation inside. Away from observers."
The emphasis makes clear he means the growing crowd of villagers and the Orc war-band currently making camp in our courtyard. Fair enough. What we need to discuss requires privacy and careful consideration.
"Chief Drokhan, your warriors are welcome to rest and refresh themselves. Our kitchens will provide whatever hospitality clan custom requires."
"You honor us." Drokhan's formal bow somehow conveys both respect and unmistakable equality. "We accept House Thorne's gracious welcome."
I catch his eye as we turn toward the keep's main entrance, drawing strength from the steady amber gaze that's become my anchor through so many trials. Whatever happens, we face it together.
The great hall feels smaller than memory suggests, though nothing has changed in three months except my perspective.
Tapestries depicting generations of Thorne healers still cover the walls.
The massive hearth still dominates the room's far end.
The long table where Father held court throughout my childhood still sits precisely where it always has.
But I see everything differently now, through eyes that have witnessed Orc clan-houses carved from living stone, heated by springs that sing with elemental power, decorated with ancestral ink instead of woven cloth.
Beautiful in its own way, but representative of just one approach to creating home and family.
"Sit." Father gestures to my accustomed chair at his right hand. "Tell me what really happened."
Where to begin? How do I explain three months of transformation in terms he'll understand without betraying truths too dangerous to voice? How do I describe bonds that transcend political alliance without confirming suspicions that could destroy everything we've built?
"The border raid came without warning," I start with safer ground. "Chief Drokhan's war-band overran our position before we could evacuate the wounded. I was taken captive along with medical supplies."
"And then?" His tone remains neutral, but I know that careful composure. He's preparing himself for painful revelations.
"Then I discovered that Orc healing traditions aren't as primitive as we've been taught. Their knowledge of mineral springs, surgical techniques, battlefield medicine. Father, they saved lives our methods couldn't have helped."