Page 8 of Orc’s Little Human

KORRATH

T he morning air carries the stench of blood and sweat as I review patrol reports with Grakul, our head scout. Standard information—no human settlements spotted within three days' ride, coastal waters clear of warships, the usual petty disputes over hunting territories with neighboring clans.

"Double the watch on the eastern approach." I hand back the parchment, mind already moving to the next pressing matter. "Varok's been pushing boundaries since the raid. I want to know if he's planning something stupid."

Grakul nods, scarred face grim with understanding. Varok's been testing my authority ever since I claimed the human girl, making pointed comments about weakness and soft leadership. The kind of talk that spreads like infection if left unchecked.

"Chieftain." Another warrior approaches, this one bearing news I like even less. "Supply count from the last raid—we're running low on neptherium. The weapons need?—"

A roar of rage cuts through the morning calm, followed by the distinctive clash of steel on steel. Not the controlled sounds of training, but the vicious, desperate noise of warriors trying to kill each other.

"Fuck." I'm moving before conscious thought takes hold, boots pounding across hard-packed earth toward the training grounds. Behind me, Grakul and the others follow, but I'm already focused on the knot of bodies surrounding two fighters who've clearly moved past practice into something uglier.

Jorth and Mazg circle each other with drawn blades, both streaming blood from cuts that speak of serious intent.

The crowd around them bays encouragement, but there's an edge to the noise that sets my teeth on edge.

This isn't honor combat or settled disputes.

This is the kind of violence that spreads, that turns warriors against each other when enemies press from outside.

"Stand down!" My voice cuts through the chaos, carrying the full weight of authority I've built through eight years of leadership. Most of the crowd shifts nervously, but the fighters ignore me completely.

Jorth lunges with his curved blade, aiming for Mazg's throat. Mazg deflects but stumbles, and I see the moment when steel will find flesh, when one of my warriors will die for no better reason than tensions running too high and pride running too hot.

The rage that rises in response feels different from usual anger. Deeper. Hotter. Like molten metal flowing through my veins instead of blood.

My palm finds the ritual knife at my belt without conscious thought, drawing the blade across my wrist in one smooth motion.

Blood wells immediately—dark crimson that carries the weight of ancestral power passed down through generations of Draegon warriors.

I let it spill onto the iron-rich earth at my feet, feeling the familiar tingle as magic responds to sacrifice.

But this time, the response isn't familiar at all.

The ground beneath my feet ripples like water, stone and packed earth flowing in ways that shouldn't be possible.

The tremor spreads outward in expanding rings, throwing both fighters off balance as their footing becomes suddenly uncertain.

Shocked curses rise from the watching crowd as warriors struggle to keep their feet on ground that moves like a living thing.

What the fuck ? —

The thought breaks off as my magic surges beyond anything I've ever experienced.

Usually, blood-forging requires careful control, precise application of will to shape stone and metal according to my intent.

This feels like trying to direct a river in flood, power flowing through me with an intensity that should tear me apart.

Jorth's blade begins to twist in his grip, iron flowing like heated wax despite the morning's cool air.

The metal wraps around his wrist like a living serpent, binding his sword arm while the edge curls harmlessly away from his opponent.

Mazg's weapon suffers the same fate, steel reshaping itself into an elaborate knot that would take a blacksmith hours to untangle.

The earth continues its unnatural movement, forming barriers between the fighters and pushing them apart with inexorable force.

Stone rises in jagged walls, creating a maze that separates not just Jorth and Mazg but the entire crowd, isolating each warrior in his own small space where violence becomes impossible.

"I said stand down." My voice carries new weight now, backed by power that makes the air itself tremble.

Both fighters stare at their ruined weapons with expressions caught between awe and terror.

The watching crowd has gone completely silent, eyes fixed on me with the kind of reverence reserved for legends made flesh.

This isn't right. The magic's never been this strong.

But even as the thought forms, I'm pushing harder, letting the power flow through me in ways that should leave me unconscious.

The stone barriers grow taller, more elaborate, while veins of ore-rich rock spiral up from deep earth to reinforce my commands.

Metal weapons throughout the crowd begin to resonate, humming with sympathetic vibrations that speak of magic barely held in check.

Stop. Pull back before you ? —

The warning comes too late. Power that felt limitless moments before suddenly cuts off, leaving me hollow and shaking as the last echoes of blood-forged magic fade from the air. The stone barriers remain, testament to forces I don't fully understand, but the cost hits like a physical blow.

Weakness floods my limbs, familiar but less severe than expected. Usually, major workings leave me unconscious for hours, body drained by the effort of channeling ancestral power through mortal flesh. This time, I'm still standing. Tired, but functional. Like the magic demanded less of me somehow.

That's not possible.

But before I can examine the impossibility further, movement at the edge of my vision catches my attention. Two small figures stand at the entrance to the training ground, one instantly recognizable despite the distance.

Thali.

And beside her, wearing clothes I recognize as belonging to her mother, stands the human girl.

Selene.

Her face holds an expression I can't immediately identify—shock, certainly, but something deeper.

Horror, maybe, or fear so profound it's transformed into something approaching awe.

Her gray-blue eyes are fixed on the twisted metal and reshaped stone with the kind of intensity that speaks of recognition rather than simple amazement.

She's seen magic before.

The realization hits with uncomfortable certainty. Most humans react to blood-forging with superstitious terror or complete disbelief. This girl watches like someone who understands exactly what she's witnessing, even if she wishes she didn't.

As I let the last traces of power fade from my consciousness, she raises one hand to her collarbone in a gesture that looks almost involuntary. Her fingers press against something hidden beneath the leather tunic, and her face twists with what looks like pain. Or recognition. Or both.

What's she hiding?

The question burns with sudden urgency, though I can't explain why her reaction matters more than the dozen other concerns demanding my attention.

She's just a human captive, valuable only for whatever information she might possess about coastal defenses or trade routes.

Her opinion of my magic shouldn't register beyond academic curiosity about enemy capabilities.

But as I watch her struggle with whatever she's feeling, pressing fingers against her collarbone like she's trying to contain something that wants to escape, I find myself caring about her response in ways that make no strategic sense.

The crowd begins to disperse around us, warriors helping to free Jorth and Mazg from their metal bonds while others examine the stone barriers with professional interest. But my attention remains fixed on the girl who watches my magic with knowing eyes and hides secrets beneath borrowed leather.

I force myself to look away from Selene's unsettling stare, focusing instead on the more immediate problem of my sister standing where she absolutely shouldn't be. The training grounds are no place for a child, especially not when tensions run high enough to turn practice into bloodshed.

"Thali." My voice carries the sharp edge of authority mixed with genuine concern. "What are you doing here?"

She shifts from foot to foot, amber-gold eyes bright with defiance that reminds me uncomfortably of myself at that age. The little bone charms woven into her wild black hair catch the morning light as she tilts her head, considering how much trouble she's willing to court.

"Wanted to show Selene the warriors training." The words come out in a rush, like she thinks speed might make them more acceptable. "She asked about?—"

"I don't care what she asked about." I cut through her excuse with the kind of finality that usually ends arguments before they begin. "You know better than to bring anyone here during weapons practice. And you especially know better than to bring her."

The emphasis on the last word makes Selene flinch slightly, though she tries to hide the reaction. But her fingers continue their restless movement against her collarbone, pressing through the leather tunic like she's trying to contain something that wants to break free.

What is she hiding under there?

But I push the curiosity aside, focusing on the more pressing concern of keeping my sister safe in a world that wants to devour everything soft and innocent. The encampment is dangerous enough without adding the chaos of warriors whose blood runs hot from interrupted combat.

"Too many orcs will be looking at both of you once Jorth and Mazg finish being sorted out." The words come harder than they should, weighted with implications I don't want to examine too closely. "I don't like that kind of attention on either of you."