Page 30 of The Shadow Orc's Bride

He didn't know what he would become if this continued.

If he let the shadows in too far.

If they finally slipped the leash.

All he knew was that the fighting had to end.

He had to stop killing.

The last time he had surrendered to the cold, consuming rage, the blood of hundreds had stained his hands. He could still feel it, slick and hot, could still hear the shadows shrieking in exultation, begging him for more.

It had been the Battle of Ashen Vale. A simple mission—eliminate the human commander, return to the stronghold. But something had broken in him that night. Perhaps it was the hundredth life he'd taken, or perhaps the shadows had simply grown too strong to contain. The memory was fragmented, distorted, but he remembered the screams. Remembered standing amidst a field of corpses, shadows writhing around him like living things, drinking the blood that soaked the earth.

Kardoc had found him there, kneeling in crimson mud. For once, his brother had been speechless. And when Rakhal had finally returned to himself, had looked down at his hands—he'd known. Known that if this continued, there would be nothing left of him.

He hadn't always been like this. His people hadn't always been like this.

It was madness.

And it had to stop.

Perhaps he was already mad—perhaps the whispers had already sunk too deep—but if that was the price, then he would pay it. He would move the earth itself to make this union work.

His father had to accept it. The Queen of Maidan had to be acknowledged, not as a trophy, not as a hostage, but as the bridge to end the bloodshed. An end to the suffering.

Kardoc would rage. Let him. Rakhal would deal with him, as he always had.

And the people of Maidan...

They would accept him.

They had to.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, letting the silence of the chamber fold around him. Weariness seeped through his body, deep and relentless, every muscle heavy, every breath edged with pain. Old scars ached like old ghosts, pulling tight across his skin.

And the runes?—

The ancient sigils carved into his flesh by the shaman, etched in pain and fire to potentiate his bond with the shadows—throbbed dully, as though warning him of what he already knew.

He had pushed too far.

The gods knew, the feat had been immense. To steal the Queen of Maidan from her own tower, carry her across the plains, and keep them both shrouded under the shadow's cloak for so long... it had been more than a risk. It had stretched him to the very edge of what even he could endure.

Almost too far.

And yet...

He straightened slowly, drawing in a deep breath as the ache gnawed at him. He could not give in, not now.

There was one more thing he needed to do. One last time, before the day broke, he would draw on the shadows.

He had to.

He would go and visit his father.

Chapter

Fourteen