Page 62 of Bound By Blood
"And what of your own associations?" Master Willem's tone carries uncomfortable implications. "Rumors suggest your relationship with their war chief extends beyond mere diplomatic necessity."
The hall falls silent except for the crackle of hearth flames. Every person present understands the significance of this moment—the question that's been lurking beneath every conversation since my return.
Here it is. The truth that could destroy everything.
Father watches me with steady gray eyes, his expression revealing nothing. Sir Marcus and Master Willem wait for my response with obvious anticipation of scandal confirmation. The household staff exchange meaningful glances.
I think of Drokhan waiting in the courtyard, trusting me to navigate this moment with wisdom and courage. I think of the refugees settling into temporary shelter, hoping for permanent sanctuary. I think of the children—human and Orc—who'velearned to see past surface differences to recognize shared humanity.
Truth or lies? Safety or risk? Love or duty?
"My relationship with Chief Drokhan," I say finally, "represents the foundation of all successful diplomacy with mutual respect, trust, and commitment to shared goals."
Technically accurate. Completely inadequate. But perhaps sufficient to deflect immediate crisis while preserving future possibilities.
"Shared goals," Sir Marcus repeats skeptically. "And what might those be?"
"Peace. Prosperity. Protection for the innocent. Pretty standard objectives for any reasonable leader."
"And the rumors about clan adoption? About participation in Orc rituals?"
The questions keep coming, each one probing deeper into dangerous territory. I feel the walls closing in, the careful balance I've maintained beginning to crack under sustained pressure.
"I earned the respect of the Stoneborn Clan through service and sacrifice," I answer, choosing each word with painful precision. "That respect serves House Thorne's interests and my own."
"Respect," Master Willem says with obvious distaste. "Is that what they call it now?"
The insinuation in his tone finally breaks my careful restraint. Heat flares through my chest as anger overwhelms diplomatic caution.
"Master Willem, perhaps you'd like to explain exactly what you mean by that comment."
"Eirian." Father's voice cuts through rising tension with quiet authority. "Master Willem speaks from concern for your welfare and this house's reputation."
"My welfare?" I stand, no longer able to maintain the pretense of calm discussion. "My welfare was threatened every day for months. My welfare was protected by people you're now questioning and insulting. If you're truly concerned about my welfare, perhaps you should consider supporting the alliances that preserved my life."
"Those alliances come with costs," Sir Marcus points out grimly. "Political costs. Social costs. Religious costs. The Church won't ignore a noble house that openly embraces heretical practices."
"Heretical practices like healing the sick? Like protecting refugees? Like choosing mercy over vengeance?"
"Like adopting pagan customs. Like participating in blood rituals. Like—" Master Willem's voice rises dangerously. "Like taking an Orc lover."
The words hang in the air like a sword blade, sharp and cutting and impossible to retract. Every person in the hall freezes, waiting for my response, measuring the implications of what they spoke aloud.
There it is. The accusation that changes everything.
I feel every gaze, the pressure of expectations and fears and prejudices that have shaped generations of conflict. In this moment, I hold the power to confirm or deny, to embrace truth or seek safety in lies.
What kind of person do I want to be? What kind of world do I want to help create?
"This council is dismissed," Father announces quietly before I can respond. "We'll continue these discussions tomorrow when cooler heads prevail."
The dismissal provides temporary escape, but I know this is merely a postponement. The questions have been raised, the suspicions voiced, the challenge issued. Tomorrow will bringrenewed pressure, more pointed inquiries, and demands for clearer answers.
I make my way to my chambers with legs that feel unsteady, my mind reeling from the confrontation. Every familiar corridor, every cherished tapestry, every childhood memory seems tainted now by the realization of how far I've traveled from the person I used to be.
My room remains exactly as I left it three months ago, personal belongings arranged with precise care, books shelved in careful order, everything reflecting the controlled life of a dutiful daughter who never questioned her place in the world.
Now it feels like a museum display of someone else's existence.
