Page 8 of Bound By Blood (Orc Warrior Romances #1)

EIRIAN

S leep comes in fragments, broken by the sound of metal against stone and the murmur of voices in a language I don't recognize. When consciousness finally claims me fully, the first thing I notice isn't the ache in my shoulders or the cold seeping through my bones. It's the light.

Not torchlight. Not lamp flame.

The walls themselves seem to breathe with a soft, blue-green luminescence that pulses like a heartbeat.

Bioluminescent moss covers every surface, creating a constellation of living stars that transforms this prison into something approaching wonder.

I've read about such phenomena in my mother's journals, descriptions of deep caves where life shines in perpetual darkness.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

The voice startles me upright, chains clanking against stone.

A woman sits just outside my cell, cross-legged on the cavern floor, her weathered hands working steadily at some kind of weaving.

She's older than Drokhan, perhaps sixty winters, with silver-streaked hair braided with what look like dried flowers and small bones.

Ritual scars decorate her arms in intricate patterns that mirror the moss's natural growth.

"Who are you?"

"Helka. Keeper of the Grove, Tender of Sacred Waters, Voice of the Deep Earth." She doesn't look up from her work of a complex pattern of plant fibers interwoven with metal threads. "Many titles for an old woman who mostly argues with spirits and grows stubborn herbs."

"A priestess."

"Among other things." Now she looks at me, eyes the color of storm clouds heavy with rain. "The Chief asked me to assess you. Determine if you're worth the food we're feeding you."

My throat tightens. "And what have you determined?"

"That depends." She sets aside her weaving and rises with the fluid grace of someone who's spent decades moving through underground spaces. "Can you truly heal, Lady Eirian Thorne? Or are you simply another noble with delusions of purpose?"

Before I can answer, she produces a key from somewhere within her robes and unlocks my cell. The door swings open with surprising silence—well-maintained hinges that speak of regular use.

"Follow me. Quietly."

The corridor beyond glows with the same living light, moss climbing walls carved smooth by generations of careful hands.

We pass other cells, most empty, a few containing sleeping figures I can't quite make out in the ethereal radiance.

Our footsteps echo softly, a rhythm that seems to match the moss's gentle pulsing.

"Where are we going?"

"To see if your mother's teachings took root or merely decorated the surface."

The passage opens into a vast chamber that takes my breath away.

It's a grotto that feels more like a cathedral, with pillars of living stone supporting a ceiling lost in luminous shadow.

Water trickles down the walls in silver threads, pooling in basins carved with symbols I recognize from ancient texts.

The air carries scents of medicinal herbs mixed with earth and time and growing things.

"Welcome to the Grove," Helka says. "Where your people's knowledge meets ours, where healing transcends the boundaries your kind insist on drawing."

In the center of the space, a man lies on a raised stone platform. Even from this distance, I can see he's badly injured with bandages stained with blood, skin pale with fever, breathing shallow and labored. Around him, several figures tend to his wounds with a careful precision of genuine skill.

"Gorak," Helka explains, leading me closer. "Drokhan's lieutenant. Took an arrow through the lung during yesterday's raid. Our healers have done what they can, but..."

She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't need to. I can see the problem from twenty paces away with the angle of the bandages, the way his chest moves, the particular pallor of internal bleeding slowly drowning him from within.

"Pneumothorax," I murmur, moving closer despite the guards who step forward threateningly. "The lung's collapsed. Without intervention, he'll die within hours."

"Our thoughts exactly." Helka raises a hand, and the guards reluctantly step back. "Question is, can you save him? And if so, will you?"

This isn't just about healing. It's a test of character, of the principles I claim to hold. Save an enemy warrior who might kill more of my people tomorrow, or let him die and prove that human compassion extends only to human suffering.

What would Mother do?

The answer comes without hesitation. She'd save him. Not because he deserved it, not because it would earn her anything, but because healing knows no borders when life holds these threats.

"I need my supplies. And clean water. Boiled if possible."

"Already prepared." Helka gestures to a stone table where my healer's satchel sits beside basins of steaming water. Someone's been planning this moment, testing whether I'd choose principle over prejudice.

I approach Gorak slowly, hands visible, movements deliberate.

The Orc healers around him watch with obvious skepticism, but they don't interfere as I examine his injuries.

Up close, the damage is even worse than I'd feared.

The arrow penetrated at an angle that missed his heart by inches but caused massive trauma to the lung tissue.

"This will require surgery," I tell Helka quietly. "And there's no guarantee he'll survive the procedure."

"But without it, he certainly won't survive the night."

"No. He won't."

She nods grimly. "Then we proceed. But understand, if he dies under your hand, his blood-brothers will demand yours in return. That's our way."

Of course, it is.

I begin with the familiar ritual of preparation, washing my hands in the steaming water while reciting the healer's oath my mother taught me. First, do no harm. Second, preserve life above all other considerations. Third, serve regardless of the patient's station or allegiance.

The Orc healers watch with growing interest as I examine my supplies, selecting the tools I'll need. My hands shake slightly with fear and exhaustion taking their toll, but my training holds firm. I've performed this procedure before, though never under such circumstances.

"I need someone to hold him steady," I say, laying out my instruments. "This can't be done alone."

One of the Orc healers, a woman with ritual scars covering half her face, steps forward. "I'll assist."

"What's your name?"

"Nasha. Senior Bone-Mender of the Third Circle."

"Lady Eirian Thorne. Combat medic, House Thorne medical corps."

We exchange nods as professional recognition transcending racial boundaries. In this moment, we're not enemies but colleagues united by a common purpose.

The surgery takes nearly two hours. Working by the ethereal light of bioluminescent moss, I carefully drain the accumulated blood and fluid from Gorak's chest cavity, repair the damaged lung tissue, and restore proper breathing function.

Nasha proves remarkably skilled, anticipating my needs and providing exactly the right assistance at critical moments.

"Interesting technique," she murmurs as I suture the final incision. "You use silk threads where we would use sinew."

"Silk dissolves naturally as the tissue heals. Less chance of infection or scarring."

"We must discuss this further. After."

After. Assuming there is an after, assuming I survive whatever tests still await.

Gorak's breathing steadies as the procedure concludes. His color improves from deathly pale to merely unhealthy, and the terrible rasping that marked each breath fades to something approaching normal respiratory rhythm.

"Will he live?" Helka asks.

"If infection doesn't set in, if he rests properly, if the sutures hold..." I wash my hands again, watching pink-tinged water swirl away. "Yes. He should recover fully."

"Should."

"Healing isn't an exact science. I've done everything possible, but the rest depends on his own strength and the care he receives during recovery."

Helka studies me with those storm-cloud eyes, weighing something I can't quite identify. Around us, the other healers tend to Gorak with renewed energy, their movements suggesting cautious optimism.

"Nasha," Helka calls. "Bring water. Clean water, with honey if we have it."

The scarred healer returns with a clay cup that steams gently in the cool air. She offers it to me without hesitation, trust earned through shared purpose, professional respect transcending old hatreds.

I drink gratefully, the warm liquid soothing my parched throat. It tastes of mountain springs and wildflower honey, clean and pure in a way with careful preparation.

"Thank you."

"You saved his life," Nasha says simply. "Honor demands appropriate recognition."

Helka approaches with something in her weathered hands, a small pendant carved from what looks like fossilized wood. The design depicts intertwined branches forming a complex knot, beautiful in its intricacy.

"Do you know what this represents?"

I examine the carving carefully, searching my memory for references in Mother's journals. "The Grove symbol. Representing growth through interconnection, strength through diversity."

"Close. It's the Healer's Knot, a reminder that all life connects, that harm to one diminishes the whole." She places it around my neck with ceremonial gravity. "Wear this, and you'll be recognized as Grove-Touched among our people. Not quite one of us, but no longer truly other."

The pendant settles around my neck, surprisingly warm despite the cool air. Something about its presence feels significant, as if invisible bonds have shifted in ways I don't yet understand.

"What does that mean, practically speaking?"

"It means your chains come off. It means you'll be housed properly, not in a cell designed for prisoners. It means you'll assist in the healing chambers, learning our methods while teaching yours."

"And in return?"