Page 53 of Bound By Blood
"Khaleth mor thuvan," she breathes. "The peace-bringer returns."
Peace-bringer.The title settles over me like a mantle I never asked to wear. But as I look around at the faces surrounding me, Orc warriors who moments ago faced certain death, now safe because of something I barely understand, I realize that asking for it was never the point.
The moment I picked up my first healer's kit, I made the choice. Every patient I've tended, every wound I've bound, every life I've saved has been preparing me for this moment when healing became something larger than medicine.
Drokhan kneels beside me, his calloused hand gentle on my shoulder. "Are you hurt?"
"No." I lean into his solid warmth, drawing strength from his presence. "Just tired. The totem takes something when it gives."
"Then we make sure you don't have to use it again unless absolutely necessary." He has the firm resolve of a leader making a command decision. "But Eirian, what you did today changes everything. Not just for our clan, but for the entire conflict."
I understand what he means. Word of this will spread beyond the battlefield, beyond clan territories, into the halls of power where human nobles decide policy toward Orc territories. A human healer who can channel ancient magic, who can gentle war-beasts and turn the tide of battle without spilling blood,such a person becomes either a bridge between worlds or a target for those who profit from continued conflict.
"We'll face that when we must," I tell him, putting the totem back under my robes where its gentle warmth reminds me that some powers are for healing, not harm. "Right now, I have wounded to tend."
The afternoon stretches ahead of us, filled with the ordinary miracles of battlefield medicine. But as I work, I can't shake the feeling that everything has changed, that the woman who gentled a war-beast with ancient words is not quite the same person who woke in Drokhan's arms this morning.
Perhaps that's how all transformations happen, not in grand moments of conscious choice, but in the quiet spaces between heartbeats when we discover we're already someone new.
12
DROKHAN
The war drums fall silent as twilight claims the vale, but victory tastes different when earned through magic rather than steel. I watch Eirian tend the last of our wounded, her movements efficient despite the exhaustion that pools beneath her eyes like shadows. The totem's glow has faded to barely a whisper, tucked safely against her ribs, but its power still hums through the air like the memory of thunder.
"Chief." Gorthak approaches, his scarred face unreadable. Blood streaks his armor from the day's fighting, but his eyes hold something I haven't seen in years of campaigning together. Wonder. "The elders request your presence. And hers."
Of course. They now know she possesses the ancient totem. Nothing gets by them. They saw her wield it and win the battle.
I follow his gaze to where Eirian kneels beside young Thurok, whose leg nearly cost him his warrior-name today. She's wrapped the shattered bone with splints carved from enemy spears, turning instruments of war into tools of healing. Even wounded, the boy grins at her with the fierce joy of someone who expected to die and found life instead.
"The Echo Spirit Rite?" I ask.
"Unanimous vote. Even Malthorn agreed, though he grumbled about precedent." Gorthak's weathered features crack into something approaching a smile. "She saved half the clan today, Chief. Magic or not, that earns recognition."
Recognition.The word carries weight in our tongue that human languages lack. To be recognized by the clan means more than acceptance. It means belonging carved in stone and sealed with blood-oath. It means family.
"Tell the elders we'll come when she's finished." I pause, watching her gentle hands guide Thurok through breathing exercises that ease pain without dulling warrior-spirit. "And Gorthak? Prepare the sacred grove. If we're doing this, we do it properly."
He nods and melts back into the camp's controlled chaos. Around us, the business of victory proceeds: weapons cleaned, wounded tended, enemy dead given proper rites according to the old laws. No Orc celebrates triumph by desecrating the fallen. Death deserves honor, regardless of which clan claims the corpse.
I settle beside Eirian as she finishes with Thurok. The boy struggles to his feet, testing his weight on the splinted leg with typical Orc stubbornness.
"Three days rest," she tells him firmly. "No arguing. I've seen what happens when warriors ignore healer's orders."
"Yes, Stoneborn Sister." The title slips from his lips naturally, as if she's always belonged among us.
Eirian's breath catches at the words. In our language, 'sister' means something deeper than human family bonds. It means chosen kinship, earned through shared blood and mutual sacrifice. It means a permanent place in the clan's heart.
"The elders want to see you," I tell her once Thurok limps away. "Both of us."
"About what happened today? With the totem?"
"About what it means. What you've become." I help her to her feet, noting how her fingers immediately seek the totem's hidden warmth. The artifact has bonded with her in ways none of us fully understand. "They want to grant you the Echo Spirit Rite."
She's quiet for a long moment, absorbing the implications. I can see her mind working through possibilities, calculating consequences with the same careful precision she applies to mixing healing draughts.
"What does that involve?" she asks finally.
