Page 10 of Orc’s Little Human

SELENE

T hali's small hand tugs at my sleeve, chattering in that mix of orcish and broken human words she's been practicing, but her voice sounds like it's coming from underwater.

My fingers won't stop moving against my collarbone, pressing through the rough leather of the borrowed tunic like I can somehow contain what's happening beneath my skin.

The mark burns.

Not the dull ache I've grown accustomed to over the past year, but actual fire racing along the raised edges of the sigil carved into my flesh. The pain spreads outward in pulsing waves, each beat matching the rhythm of my heart as we walk further from the training grounds.

"Selene?" Thali's voice carries concern now, amber eyes searching my face with the kind of perceptiveness that makes her dangerous despite her age. "You look... pale?"

I force my expression into something resembling calm, though sweat beads along my hairline from the effort of not doubling over. The burning intensifies with each step, like whatever's branded into my skin is trying to claw its way out through muscle and bone.

"Just tired." The lie comes easier than it should, wrapped in the kind of hollow smile I perfected during my time in the camps. "Can I... can I rest for a while?"

Her face brightens with the eagerness of someone who thinks she's being helpful. "Yes! Your room is nice now. I took all the sharp things out and found more furs to make it soft."

The memory of that first night surfaces unbidden—weapons covering every surface, steel gleaming in the lamplight while I huddled in the corner expecting torture or worse.

The contrast with Thali's earnest desire to make me comfortable would be touching if I weren't fighting the urge to scratch at my collarbone until I draw blood.

Blood magic.

The realization hits like cold water, cutting through the haze of pain with crystalline clarity. That's what Korrath did back there. I watched him slice his wrist open and pour his blood onto the ground, then twist metal and stone like they were made of clay instead of iron and earth.

I know that magic. I've seen it before, in that death camp.

The thought makes my stomach lurch with implications I don't want to examine. Whatever they did to me there, whatever purpose this mark serves, it's still active. Still responding to forces I barely understand.

We reach the longhouse that's become my prison, though Thali insists on calling it my room like I chose to be here.

The space has changed dramatically since that first terrifying night—weapons removed, additional furs spread across the floor to create something approaching comfort, even a small oil lamp burning steadily in one corner.

"See? Much better now." Thali bounces on her toes, clearly proud of her improvements. "And I brought you more clothes too. Human clothes are strange, but these should fit."

She gestures toward a pile of garments I hadn't noticed before—simple tunics and pants that look like they came from other captives. The thought of wearing dead people's clothing should disturb me, but after a year of survival by any means necessary, such concerns feel like luxuries I can't afford.

"Thank you." The words come out more genuine than intended, though the burning in my chest makes it hard to focus on gratitude. "You've done... you've done good work here."

Her smile could power half the encampment, bright and uncomplicated in the way that only children can manage. For a moment, I almost forget that she's an orc, that her people are my captors, that this kindness might be nothing more than elaborate cruelty designed to break my spirit.

Almost.

"I'll let you rest now." She moves toward the door, then pauses with the kind of hesitation that suggests she wants to say something more. "Korrath seemed... different today. After the magic. Did you notice?"

Did I notice? The question would be funny if it weren't so terrifying. I noticed everything—the way his golden eyes blazed brighter during the working, the unusual strength of power that should have left him unconscious, the way he stared at me afterward like I was a puzzle he needed to solve.

"Different how?" I manage to ask, though my voice sounds strained even to my own ears.

"Stronger. But also... confused?" Her brow furrows with the effort of finding the right words. "Like he didn't understand what happened either."

Did he feel something because of me?

His confusion should be comforting—if he doesn't understand the connection, he can't use it against me. But instead, it feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing that one wrong step will send me tumbling into an abyss I can't escape.

"I'm sure he's fine." Another lie, smoother this time. "Your brother seems like he can handle anything."

Thali nods with the absolute confidence of someone who's never seen their hero fail. "He takes care of everything. Always has."

She slips out through the heavy door, leaving me alone with the fire spreading through my chest like molten metal. The moment her footsteps fade, I collapse onto the furs, fingers clawing at the tunic with desperate urgency.

The fabric comes away easily enough, revealing skin that looks like it's been held too close to a forge. The Mark of Neptheris stands out in stark relief against my pale flesh—an intricate sigil burned deep into the hollow of my collarbone, its raised edges now bright red and inflamed.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The mark pulses with each heartbeat, radiating heat that makes the surrounding skin feel tight and raw. I trace its outline with trembling fingers, feeling the familiar pattern of lines and curves that have haunted my nightmares for the past year.

The memory hits without warning, dragging me back to being strapped to a metal table while orcs leaned over me, doing things I never understood. As they pressed heated ore to my skin but then used magic to do something more than burn me.

The pain that followed defied description—not just physical agony as they burned the sigil into my flesh, but something deeper. Like they were carving channels directly into my soul, creating pathways for forces that human bodies weren't meant to contain.

Most of the other test subjects died during the procedure. The lucky ones simply stopped breathing. The others... the others screamed until their voices gave out, then kept screaming silently until their hearts finally stopped from the strain.

I survived. Lucky me.

But I never understood what the mark actually did until today, watching Korrath's magic surge beyond anything that should have been possible. The way his blood-forging responded to my presence, growing stronger and more controlled despite the massive amount of power he channeled.

I made him stronger. Just by standing there, I amplified his magic.

The implications cascade through my mind like falling stones, each one carrying the weight of potential disaster.

If the orcs discover what I am, what I can do, they won't just kill me quickly.

They'll use me, drain every drop of enhancement from my body until there's nothing left but an empty husk marked with scars.

But the worst part, the part that makes my hands shake with something beyond fear, is the way I felt when his magic flowed through me.

For just a moment, standing there in the training ground with power crackling between us, I felt.

.. connected. Complete. Like some missing piece of myself had finally clicked into place.

That's not possible. I'm human. I don't have magic.

But the mark burns with truth I can't deny, reminding me that the line between human and something else blurred the moment they carved their sigil into my flesh.

Whatever I am now, whatever they made me, it responds to Korrath's blood-forged power in ways that terrify and attract me in equal measure.

I press my face against the cool furs, trying to escape the heat radiating from my chest. The pain is already starting to fade, settling back into the familiar ache I've learned to ignore, but the memory of that connection lingers like an addiction waiting to be fed.

I need to stay away from him. Need to avoid triggering the mark again.

But even as I form the thought, I know it's a lie.

Every instinct I've developed over the past year screams that understanding Korrath represents my best chance for survival.

If I can figure out how his magic works, how the mark responds to it, maybe I can find a way to control the connection instead of being controlled by it.

It's just strategy. Gathering intelligence on the enemy.

Another lie, sweeter than the others. Because the truth lurking beneath my rationalizations is far more dangerous than simple survival tactics. The truth is that I want to feel that connection again, want to experience the rush of power flowing between us even if it kills me.

The truth is that I'm drawn to him despite every logical reason to fear and hate everything he represents.

Just for safety, I tell myself, pulling the leather tunic back over the mark's angry red outline. I need to watch him to understand what I'm dealing with. That's all.

But my hands continue to shake as I settle deeper into the furs, and the taste of lies sits bitter on my tongue.