Page 24 of Orc’s Little Human

KORRATH

T he circle of warriors expands, giving us room for what's about to happen. Ancient tradition demands space for blood to flow, for the War God to witness which of us deserves to lead. I draw my blade slowly, letting the rasp of metal fill the silence like a promise of violence.

Varok circles me with the patient hunger of a predator who thinks he's already won. His weapon—a massive two-handed sword with serrated edges—reflects firelight across its scarred surface. He's fought with that blade for fifteen years, carved his reputation into enemy flesh with its edge.

"Last chance to yield, brother," he calls out, loud enough for every warrior to hear. "Kneel before your betters and I might let you live as an exile."

I don't waste breath on words. Instead, I shift my weight, feeling the familiar settle of combat readiness flow through my muscles. The blade in my hands feels lighter than it should, balanced perfectly for the killing stroke that's coming.

But beneath the surface confidence, doubt gnaws at my bones like acid. Varok isn't just another challenger—he's one of the finest warriors the Blackmaw has ever produced. Without my blood-forging, this fight becomes a question of pure skill and endurance.

And I'm not certain I'm the better warrior.

My eyes find Thali at the edge of the circle, tears streaming down her small face as Grakul holds her steady. She shouldn't be watching this. No child should see their brother fight for his life, watch blood spill in the firelight while the clan decides who lives and who dies.

"Listen to me," I call to her, my voice cutting through the crowd's murmur. "If things go badly—if I fall—you run. Take Selene and go to the cliffs. Hide until morning, then follow the coast south to Clan Bloodstone."

"Don't say that!" Thali's voice cracks with desperation. "Don't you dare say that!"

But it's Selene's response that stops me cold. She pushes forward through the crowd, her gray-blue eyes burning with fierce determination despite the terror I can see lurking beneath.

"Don't talk like you're already dead," she snaps, stopping just at the circle's edge. "Fight like you mean to win."

Fight like I mean to win. Easy words from someone who's never faced Varok's blade, never seen him tear through enemy warriors like they're made of paper. But there's something in her voice—a certainty that makes me want to believe victory is possible.

I move toward her, ignoring Varok's impatient snarl behind me. When I lean close enough that only she can hear, the words spill out like a confession.

"I don't know if I can defeat him without my magic," I admit, the admission tasting like defeat.

Selene shakes her head. "Why couldn't you use it?"

I touch her face. "Because I can't bear for it to hurt you."

Her hand finds my arm, fingers pressing against scarred skin with surprising strength. "Use it. I can handle whatever you need to to end this."

She can handle it. The simple confidence in her voice makes something tight in my chest ease, even as fresh worry takes its place. Using blood-forging in front of the clan will brand her as cursed beyond any doubt. It will make our exile inevitable.

But looking into her eyes, seeing the fierce determination burning there, I realize something has changed. This isn't about protecting her anymore—it's about fighting beside her. About choosing the family we've built over the clan that would destroy it.

"If I do this, there's no going back," I warn her. "Win or lose, we'll be outcasts."

Her smile is sharp as broken glass, beautiful and dangerous in the firelight. "Then we better make it count."

I straighten, turning back to face Varok with new purpose flowing through my veins like molten iron. The doubt hasn't disappeared, but it's been transformed into something else—cold determination mixed with the kind of fury that burns everything in its path.

"Enough talk," Varok growls, raising his massive blade in both hands. "Let's finish this."

He comes at me like an avalanche given form, his sword cutting through the air with enough force to split stone. I duck under the first strike, feeling the wind of its passage ruffle my hair, then pivot to drive my blade toward his exposed ribs.

Steel rings against steel as he catches my thrust on his crossguard, the impact sending vibrations up both our arms. We break apart, circle each other like hunting cats, each looking for the opening that will end this.

He's faster than I remembered. The thought flickers through my mind as I barely avoid his next attack, a diagonal cut that would have opened me from shoulder to hip. And stronger.

Varok presses his advantage, launching a series of brutal overhead strikes that force me to give ground. Each impact against my blade sends shock waves through my shoulders, reminding me that he has reach and weight on his side.

But I have something else.

I draw the curved knife from my belt with my off-hand, letting a thin line of blood well along my palm as the edge bites deep. The crimson drops hit the packed earth at my feet, and power responds like a hunting dog hearing its master's whistle.

The ground beneath Varok's feet suddenly erupts upward, stone spikes jutting through packed earth to catch at his legs. He leaps backward with orcish agility, but the distraction gives me the opening I need.

My sword finds the gap in his armor, sliding between iron plates to score a line across his ribs. Dark blood flows, staining leather and metal, and Varok's roar of pain echoes across the encampment.

"Blood-forging," he snarls, pressing one hand to his wounded side. "Just like the old stories. Just like the cursed magic that destroyed our ancestors."

Around the circle, I can hear the warriors muttering—some in awe, some in fear, all of them recognizing power they've only heard described in fireside tales. But beneath their voices, I sense something else.

The magic feels stronger. Not just the usual rush of power that comes with blood sacrifice, but something deeper. Something that resonates in my bones like struck metal, amplifying the force I can channel through stone and iron.

I risk a glance toward Selene and find her watching with intense concentration, one hand pressed to her collarbone where her tunic hides whatever mark she carries. There's pain in her expression, but also determination—like she's forcing herself to endure something burning.

She's doing this. The realization hits me like a physical blow. Whatever that mark is, it's connected to my magic. She's amplifying it.

Varok doesn't give me time to process the implications. He charges again, his sword weaving patterns of death through the air as he tries to overwhelm my defenses. But now I have the earth itself as an ally.

Stone rises to meet his blade, deflecting strikes that would have shattered bone. Iron spikes erupt from the ground to force him into predictable movements. The very soil beneath his feet shifts and buckles, making him fight for balance as well as position.

"Fight like a warrior!" he bellows, frustration bleeding through his voice as another attack is turned aside by risen stone. "Not like some cave-dwelling shaman!"

I am fighting like a warrior. The thought burns through me as I press my advantage, blood from a dozen small cuts feeding power into the earth around us. I'm fighting like a Draegon.

My ancestors didn't apologize for their gifts. They didn't hide their power or pretend to be something less than they were. They used every weapon at their disposal to protect what mattered most.

Just like I'm going to do.

I slash my palm deeper, letting more blood fall as I channel everything I have into one final working. The ground beneath us cracks and heaves, stone pillars erupting in a rough circle around Varok. Not to trap him—to funnel him toward where I'm waiting.

He realizes the trap a heartbeat too late. As he dodges between rising stones, his path becomes predictable, his options limited to the corridor I've carved for him. When he emerges from the maze of rock, my blade is already moving.

The steel punches through his chest armor like it's made of parchment, sliding between ribs to find his heart. Varok's eyes go wide with shock, then narrow with hate as he realizes he's dying.

"Cursed," he whispers, blood frothing at his lips. "You're both cursed."

"Maybe," I admit, twisting the blade to ensure the wound is mortal. "But we're alive."

He falls backward, my sword pulling free with a wet sound that echoes in the sudden silence. Around the circle, sixty warriors stare at their fallen champion, at the blood-soaked earth, at the stone spikes that still jut from the ground like accusing fingers.

They're afraid. I can see it in their faces, smell it in the air like smoke from a green fire. Not just of my magic, but of what it represents. Change. Power they don't understand. A future where the old ways might not be enough.

I wipe my blade clean on Varok's cloak, then turn to face the assembled clan. These warriors have followed me for eight years, bled beside me in a dozen raids, trusted me to lead them through famine and war.

And I'm about to betray that trust.

"I am no longer your chief," I announce, my voice carrying to every corner of the encampment. "Effective immediately, I renounce my claim to leadership of the Blackmaw clan."

The declaration hits like a thunderclap. Warriors who moments ago were watching in respectful silence now erupt in confused shouts, angry questions, desperate pleas for me to reconsider.

But I'm not done.

"Furthermore," I continue, raising my voice above the chaos, "I leave Gor'thul tonight. Anyone who wishes to follow me is welcome. Anyone who chooses to stay will select a new chief by dawn."

It's the only way. The certainty settles in my bones like forged iron. Varok was right about one thing—my presence here will only breed more conflict. As long as I remain, there will always be those who see Selene as a threat, who view my magic as corruption.

But if I leave...

My eyes find Thali in the crowd, see the terror and confusion warring across her young face. She doesn't understand why I'm abandoning everything we've built, why I'm choosing exile over the clan that raised us both.

She will. The thought carries its own pain, but also hope. Someday, she'll understand that some things are worth more than tradition. That family isn't always defined by blood.

I stride toward Selene, ignoring the warriors who try to block my path. Onog steps forward as I approach, his weathered face creased with something that might be sorrow.

"You don't have to do this," he says quietly. "The clan needs you. Especially now."

"The clan needs a leader they can trust without question," I reply, stopping before him. "That's not me. Not anymore."

His dark eyes flick toward Selene, then back to my face. "And her? What happens to the human when you're no longer here to protect her?"

"She comes with me." The words ring with finality.

I reach for Selene's hand, feel her fingers intertwine with mine despite the blood still staining my palm. Her skin is warm against mine, steady and certain in a way that makes the rest of this bearable.

"Are you ready?" I ask her.

Her smile is fierce as a blade, beautiful as sunrise over the storm-battered sea. "I've been ready since the day I met you."

Then we go. The decision settles in my chest like coming home, even as everything I've ever known crumbles around us. We go, and we find our own path.

Together.