Page 33 of Bound By Blood (Orc Warrior Romances #1)

Movement catches my attention as Drokhan approaches from the direction of his war-band's camp. Even in this crowd of mixed refugees, his presence commands attention—the way people automatically create space for him to pass, the subtle deference shown even by proud warriors like Gathak.

"Chief Drokhan," Father acknowledges formally. "Your counsel on these matters would be valuable."

"Lord Edran." Drokhan's response carries the measured respect of one leader addressing another. "I have observed these refugees during their journey. Their conduct honors both human and Orc traditions. They prove cooperation serves all peoples better than conflict."

"And their loyalty? Their intentions?"

The question is loaded with implications about trust, risk, and the price of extending protection to desperate people. Drokhan considers carefully before responding.

"Children who share bread with former enemies do not plot betrayal. Warriors who bleed defending refugees do not harbor malice. These families seek what all families seek—safety for their young, purpose for their strength, hope for their future."

His words carry the judgment of someone who's spent three months observing these people under the most stressful circumstances possible. If Chief Drokhan of the Stoneborn Clan vouches for their character, few would question that assessment.

"Very well," Father decides. "We'll establish temporary housing in the old garrison barracks. Food and basic provisions until more permanent arrangements can be made. Lord Beric, we'll discuss integration details tomorrow."

Relief washes through the assembled refugees like a visible wave. Children who've learned to hide their emotions finally allow themselves to smile. Adults who've carried impossible responsibility for weeks finally permit their shoulders to relax slightly.

"House Thorne's generosity will be remembered for generations," Beric says with genuine gratitude.

"House Thorne honors ancient traditions of sanctuary and hospitality," Father replies, then adds with pointed emphasis, "We trust those traditions will be respected by all who benefit from them."

The subtle warning doesn't escape notice. We extend protection, but we expect appropriate behavior in return. Step carefully.

As the refugees move toward their assigned quarters, I catch Drokhan's eye across the courtyard. He gives an almost imperceptible nod of approval, acknowledging the small victory we've achieved. One battle won in a much larger war for acceptance and change.

But even as servants bustle about preparing evening meals and arranging bedding, I notice the way certain household members watch the proceedings with obvious disapproval.

Sir Avery, our chief household guard, keeps his hand near his sword hilt despite the peaceful nature of the gathering.

Master Willem whispers urgently with other senior staff, their expressions troubled.

Not everyone embraces change.

The reckoning comes after evening meal, when Father convenes an impromptu council in the great hall. Sir Avery stands at his right hand, flanked by Master Willem and several other household seniors. Their arrangement makes clear this isn't a casual discussion.

"Lady Eirian," Father begins formally, "your recent experiences have obviously influenced your perspective on traditional policies regarding Orc relations."

Traditional policies. A euphemism for generations of mutual hostility, border raids, and reflexive hatred. I straighten in my chair, drawing on every lesson in diplomacy and courage the past months have taught me.

"My experiences have shown me that traditional approaches no longer serve anyone's interests," I reply carefully. "Continuation of old patterns will only perpetuate old suffering."

"And you believe accommodating Orc refugees represents a viable alternative?"

Sir Avery steps forward, his weathered face tight with disapproval. "My lord, with respect, housing armed Orc warriors within our walls poses obvious security risks. What guarantee do we have of their true intentions?"

"The same guarantee we have of anyone's intentions," I answer before Father can respond. "Their actions over time, their treatment of the vulnerable, their willingness to honor agreements and build trust."

"Pretty words," Master Willem interjects, "but history teaches harsh lessons about trusting natural enemies. The Church itself warns against?—"

"The Church teaches mercy and compassion," I interrupt, feeling heat rise in my voice. "When did those virtues become conditional on heritage or birth?"

"When survival becomes uncertain," Sir Marcus replies bluntly. "My lady, you've been away for months. You've seen only what they wanted you to see, heard only what they wanted you to hear. How can you be certain you haven't been deceived?"

The accusation hits like a physical blow. Deceived. As if my judgment, my experience, my transformation mean nothing. As if months of shared struggle, mutual respect, and growing love could be dismissed as elaborate manipulation.

"I've seen Orc warriors die protecting human children," I say quietly, fighting to keep my voice steady. "I've seen human mothers nurse Orc infants. I've seen enemies become allies through shared purpose and mutual respect. If that represents deception, then perhaps we need more of it."

"And what of your own associations?" Master Willem's tone carries uncomfortable implications. "Rumors suggest your relationship with their war chief extends beyond mere diplomatic necessity."

The hall falls silent except for the crackle of hearth flames. Every person present understands the significance of this moment—the question that's been lurking beneath every conversation since my return.

Here it is. The truth that could destroy everything.

Father watches me with steady gray eyes, his expression revealing nothing. Sir Marcus and Master Willem wait for my response with obvious anticipation of scandal confirmation. The household staff exchange meaningful glances.

I think of Drokhan waiting in the courtyard, trusting me to navigate this moment with wisdom and courage.

I think of the refugees settling into temporary shelter, hoping for permanent sanctuary.

I think of the children—human and Orc—who've learned to see past surface differences to recognize shared humanity.

Truth or lies? Safety or risk? Love or duty?

"My relationship with Chief Drokhan," I say finally, "represents the foundation of all successful diplomacy with mutual respect, trust, and commitment to shared goals."

Technically accurate. Completely inadequate. But perhaps sufficient to deflect immediate crisis while preserving future possibilities.

"Shared goals," Sir Marcus repeats skeptically. "And what might those be?"

"Peace. Prosperity. Protection for the innocent. Pretty standard objectives for any reasonable leader."

"And the rumors about clan adoption? About participation in Orc rituals?"

The questions keep coming, each one probing deeper into dangerous territory. I feel the walls closing in, the careful balance I've maintained beginning to crack under sustained pressure.

"I earned the respect of the Stoneborn Clan through service and sacrifice," I answer, choosing each word with painful precision. "That respect serves House Thorne's interests and my own."

"Respect," Master Willem says with obvious distaste. "Is that what they call it now?"

The insinuation in his tone finally breaks my careful restraint. Heat flares through my chest as anger overwhelms diplomatic caution.

"Master Willem, perhaps you'd like to explain exactly what you mean by that comment."

"Eirian." Father's voice cuts through rising tension with quiet authority. "Master Willem speaks from concern for your welfare and this house's reputation."

"My welfare?" I stand, no longer able to maintain the pretense of calm discussion.

"My welfare was threatened every day for months.

My welfare was protected by people you're now questioning and insulting.

If you're truly concerned about my welfare, perhaps you should consider supporting the alliances that preserved my life. "

"Those alliances come with costs," Sir Marcus points out grimly. "Political costs. Social costs. Religious costs. The Church won't ignore a noble house that openly embraces heretical practices."

"Heretical practices like healing the sick? Like protecting refugees? Like choosing mercy over vengeance?"

"Like adopting pagan customs. Like participating in blood rituals. Like—" Master Willem's voice rises dangerously. "Like taking an Orc lover."

The words hang in the air like a sword blade, sharp and cutting and impossible to retract. Every person in the hall freezes, waiting for my response, measuring the implications of what they spoke aloud.

There it is. The accusation that changes everything.

I feel every gaze, the pressure of expectations and fears and prejudices that have shaped generations of conflict. In this moment, I hold the power to confirm or deny, to embrace truth or seek safety in lies.

What kind of person do I want to be? What kind of world do I want to help create?

"This council is dismissed," Father announces quietly before I can respond. "We'll continue these discussions tomorrow when cooler heads prevail."

The dismissal provides temporary escape, but I know this is merely a postponement. The questions have been raised, the suspicions voiced, the challenge issued. Tomorrow will bring renewed pressure, more pointed inquiries, and demands for clearer answers.

I make my way to my chambers with legs that feel unsteady, my mind reeling from the confrontation. Every familiar corridor, every cherished tapestry, every childhood memory seems tainted now by the realization of how far I've traveled from the person I used to be.

My room remains exactly as I left it three months ago, personal belongings arranged with precise care, books shelved in careful order, everything reflecting the controlled life of a dutiful daughter who never questioned her place in the world.

Now it feels like a museum display of someone else's existence.

I sink into the window seat overlooking the courtyard, watching Drokhan's warriors tend their evening fires. From this distance, they look almost peaceful. Just people sharing meals, caring for equipment, settling into rest after a long day's travel.

But I know the truth lurking beneath that peaceful surface.

I know the suspicion, the fear, the hatred that centuries of conflict have embedded in both peoples.

I know how fragile this moment of cooperation really is, how easily it could shatter under pressure from traditionalists who profit from endless warfare.

Master Willem's right about one thing, the Church won't ignore what's happening here.

When news reaches the capital that House Thorne harbors Orc refugees, that Lord Edran's daughter openly advocates for alliance with traditional enemies, the response will be swift and merciless.

Charges of heresy. Demands for recantation.

Threats of excommunication that could destroy our family's standing and leave the refugees without protection.

And if they learn the truth about Drokhan and me...

I think of the clan-marks hidden beneath my sleeves. The vows spoken in sacred grotto light, the love that transformed us both. Those bonds feel as real and vital as breath itself, but in Church law and noble expectations, they represent the most damning evidence possible.

I could deny everything. Claim the rumors are malicious gossip. Present myself as a dutiful daughter who endured captivity with piety.

The lies would come easily enough. I've learned diplomatic language during these past months, the art of speaking truth while revealing nothing dangerous.

I could retreat to the safety of conventional expectations, abandon the refugees to an uncertain fate, let the alliance crumble for want of support.

Save myself. Preserve the family honor. Let others pay the price for my cowardice.

But when I close my eyes, I see Tam's bright smile as he showed off his healing arm. I see little Briska offering her carved bird with shy pride. I see Gathak's weathered face softening as she speaks of sanctuary for her grandchildren.

I see Drokhan's amber eyes reflecting totem-light as we spoke vows that bind deeper than blood.

I can't. I won't.

Whatever the cost, whatever the consequences, I can't betray the trust of people who've proven their worth through shared struggle. I can't abandon love for the hollow safety of lies. I can't help build a better world by retreating to the prejudices that created the old one.

But tomorrow will bring fresh challenges, more pointed questions, escalating pressure from those who benefit from traditional divisions. And I'm uncertain I possess the strength to withstand that pressure indefinitely.

Two worlds hang in the balance. And I'm the only bridge between them.

The thought should be empowering. Instead, it feels like a burden too great for any one person to bear.

Outside my window, the refugee fires burn steadily in the night, small lights of hope in an uncertain world. Tomorrow will test whether those lights can survive the storms ahead.

Or whether they'll be extinguished by the very people, they're trying to save.