Page 20 of Orc’s Little Human

KORRATH

T he walk back to the longhouse feels like the longest of my life.

Selene's weight in my arms should be nothing—I've carried fallen warriors twice her size from battlefields—but every step sends tremors through my chest that have nothing to do with physical strain.

Her face is ashen against my shoulder, breath coming in shallow pants that make something primal and protective roar to life in my blood.

She hid this from me. The thought circles like a scavenger bird, picking at the edges of my consciousness. Whatever that mark on her collarbone means, whatever power flows between us when I bleed iron into existence, she knew. She's known this entire time and said nothing.

The betrayal should anger me. Should make me want to shake answers from her until she tells me every secret she's been hoarding. Instead, all I can think about is the way her skin blistered under my touch, the agony that twisted her features when my magic responded to her presence.

What did they do to her?

The mark looked fresh despite clearly being old—raised flesh that bore the distinctive pattern of deliberate scarring. Someone burned that symbol into her skin with purpose, with intent. The question is whether she volunteered for it or if it was forced on her in whatever hell she escaped from.

Thali appears in the doorway before I reach it, her small face creased with worry as she takes in Selene's pale complexion and my grim expression.

"What happened?" she demands, following us inside with the quick steps of someone trying not to be left behind. "Is she hurt? Did someone?—"

"She's going to be fine." The lie comes easier than it should. Truth is, I don't know what the fuck is happening to either of us. "But I need you to help me take care of her."

I push through the main room toward my private chambers, the space I've never brought anyone else into.

The bed frame I carved from driftwood years ago dominates one wall, thick furs piled high enough to cushion even my massive frame.

Weapons line the walls in careful arrangement—not for intimidation like in the room where I first kept Selene, but because this is where I maintain my personal arsenal.

Selene's eyes flutter open as I lower her onto the furs, those gray-blue depths immediately focusing on my face with an intensity that makes my chest tight.

"You saw," she whispers, and there's something like defeat in her voice that makes my jaw clench.

"I saw." I don't soften the words, don't try to spare her feelings. "And we're going to talk about what it means. But first, we're going to take care of the damage."

Her fingers move instinctively toward her collarbone, then stop as if she's afraid to touch the inflamed skin. "It's not as bad as it looks."

"Don't." The word comes out harder than I intended, sharp enough to make her flinch. "Don't lie to me. Not about this."

Thali hovers at the edge of the bed, her amber-gold eyes wide with concern and curiosity. She can sense the tension between us, the undercurrent of something larger and more dangerous than a simple injury.

"Thali." I turn to face my sister, forcing my voice into something approaching calm. "I need you to bring me the burn cream from the forge. The clay pot with the green mark on the side."

She nods and disappears without question, her bare feet silent against the wooden floor. That's one of the things I've always loved about Thali—she knows when to ask questions and when to simply act.

Alone with Selene, I settle onto the edge of the bed and reach for the torn edges of her tunic. She tenses but doesn't pull away, watching my face with an expression I can't quite read. Fear, yes, but also something that might be resignation.

The fabric tears easily under my hands, exposing the full extent of the mark burned into her skin.

It's intricate—a series of interlocking symbols that seem to shift and writhe when I'm not looking directly at them.

Fresh blisters have formed over the old scar tissue, angry red welts that speak to the intensity of whatever connection exists between us.

"Neptherium," I say, recognizing the distinctive pattern even though I've never seen it used like this. "Someone branded you with neptherium ore."

Her laugh is bitter, hollow. "Among other things."

Other things. The words lodge in my throat like broken glass. I want to demand details, want to know exactly what was done to her and who needs to die for it. But the fresh pain in her eyes stops me. Whatever happened, pushing for answers now will only drive her further away.

Thali returns with the cream, setting the clay pot beside me with careful precision. The mixture inside smells of herbs and metal—something I developed years ago for treating forge burns and blade cuts. It's saved my skin more times than I can count.

"This will help," I tell Selene, scooping out a generous amount of the pale green cream. "It might sting at first."

She nods, but I catch the way her hands clench in the furs as I bring my fingers toward her collarbone. The first touch makes her gasp, back arching slightly off the bed. Whether from pain or something else, I can't tell.

The cream spreads easily over the inflamed skin, and I work with the careful precision I use when forging delicate pieces.

Each stroke of my fingers traces the edges of the mark, following lines that seem to pulse with their own internal rhythm.

There's power here—I can feel it humming against my palms like a forge at full heat.

This is why my magic feels different. The realization hits me with the force of a physical blow.

Since the moment I claimed Selene, since I first drew blood in her presence, everything has changed.

My power burns brighter, lasts longer, leaves me less drained than it should.

The iron responds more readily to my will, shapes itself with an ease that should be impossible.

She's not just connected to my magic. She's amplifying it.

The question is whether she knows how, whether this is something she's doing consciously or if it's an effect of whatever was done to her. The tight line of her mouth suggests she's as confused by this as I am, but I've learned not to trust assumptions when it comes to Selene.

"There." I cap the pot and set it aside, studying my handiwork. The angry red of the blisters has already begun to fade, the cream working its way into the damaged tissue. "That should help with the pain."

"Thank you." The words are quiet, almost lost in the sound of wind rattling the shutters. She pulls the torn edges of her tunic together with shaking fingers, trying to cover the mark again.

I catch her hands before she can succeed, holding them gently but firmly against her chest. "Selene."

She meets my eyes reluctantly, and I see the fear there—not of me, but of what I might do with the knowledge I've gained.

"I have to go face the council," I tell her, keeping my voice low enough that Thali can't overhear from where she's arranging shells on the small table by the window. "They're going to want answers about what happened out there."

"I know." Her throat works as she swallows hard. "I know what they'll want to do with me."

Execute her. The unspoken words hang between us like a blade.

Varok has been pushing for exactly that since the moment I claimed her, and this will give him all the ammunition he needs.

A human with mysterious powers, one who can somehow influence orcish blood magic?

He'll paint her as a threat to the entire clan.

Maybe she is a threat. Maybe I should be more concerned about the implications of whatever connection exists between us. But when I try to imagine handing her over to Varok's tender mercies, something savage and protective unfurls in my chest like a worg defending its pack.

"Stay here," I command, releasing her hands to pull the thick furs up around her shoulders. "Rest. Let the cream work."

I turn to Thali, who's been pretending not to listen while obviously hanging on every word. "Watch over her. Don't let anyone else in here, and don't leave her alone."

My sister straightens, taking on the serious expression she wears when given important responsibilities. "I'll keep her safe."

You're both safer here than anywhere else right now. The thought follows me as I head for the door, leaving behind the warm sanctuary of my private chambers for the cold reality of clan politics.

The walk to the council fire pit feels like preparing for battle. By the time I reach the center of the encampment, shadows have begun to lengthen across the packed earth. The fire burns high and bright, casting dancing light across the faces of the warriors already gathered around it.

Varok sits directly across from my usual position, his dark eyes glittering with something that might be satisfaction.

He's been waiting for this moment—waiting for me to make a mistake large enough to justify challenging my leadership.

Beside him, Mol leans forward with the eager attention of someone who smells blood in the water.

Grakul occupies his customary spot to the left of the fire, weathered face impassive as always.

He's been my father's friend longer than I've been alive, fought beside him in battles that shaped the clan's current territory.

If anyone can be counted on for wisdom rather than political maneuvering, it's him.

Onog settles into the remaining space with a grunt of effort, his bulk making the wooden seat creak ominously.

He's been watching me carefully since the incident with my magic, those calculating eyes taking in details that others might miss.

Whatever conclusions he's drawn, he's keeping them to himself for now.