Page 54 of Bound By Blood
"Blood. Fire. Words that bind deeper than marriage or war-oath." I pause, meeting her steady gaze. "It makes you Stoneborn in truth, not just in name. It means the clan's enemies become your enemies. Our dead become your honored ancestors. Our children become yours to protect."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you remain honored guest and cherished companion." The word feels inadequate for what she's become to me, to us all. "But Eirian, after today, after what you did with the totem, there's no going back to simple captivity. You've proven yourself clan-blood in everything but ceremony."
She nods slowly, understanding the choice laid before her. Accept the rite and claim Orc identity permanently, or maintain her human heritage while navigating the complex loyalties that entails.
"When?" she asks.
"Now. While the victory-fire burns and the gods are listening."
We walk through camp toward the sacred grove, passing warriors who straighten as we approach. Some offer the fist-to-heart salute reserved for clan heroes. Others simply watch with expressions that blend respect and curiosity. Word of the day'sevents has spread, growing in the telling as all battlefield stories do.
The grove lies in a natural depression surrounded by standing stones carved with clan histories. Torches planted between the monoliths cast dancing shadows across faces both familiar and strange. The full council has assembled with elders, war-leaders, priestesses, even the younglings whose warrior-trials await next season.
Elder Korrath steps forward, his ancient frame draped in ceremonial robes that predate my grandfather's time. The bone staff in his gnarled hands bears the carved names of every Stoneborn granted Echo Spirit status in living memory. Seven names in three generations.
"Eirian of House Thorne," his voices is strong across the grove with surprising strength. "You stand before the Stoneborn Clan having earned recognition through deed and sacrifice. Do you come willingly to claim your place among us?"
"I do." Her voice never wavers, though I see her hands tremble slightly. Fear or anticipation, perhaps both.
"Then speak your intent before stone and fire, that the ancestors may judge your heart."
Eirian steps into the circle's center, torchlight painting gold highlights in her chestnut hair. When she speaks, her words carry the careful cadence of someone who's thought deeply about their meaning.
"I came to your lands as enemy, stranger, outsider. Through your mercy and patience, I learned that strength comes not from conquest but from connection. That healing and harming spring from the same source—choice." She pauses, one hand drifting to touch the hidden totem. "I choose to heal. I choose to serve the clan that showed me family can be forged from unlikely materials. I choose to be Stoneborn, if you'll have me."
Grimjaw raises his staff, pointing it toward the largest standing stone where our ancestor-spirits allegedly whisper judgment to those who know how to listen. Silence stretches through heartbeats that feel like hours.
"The stones accept you," he announces finally. "Let blood seal what words have spoken."
The ceremony unfolds with ancient precision. Sacred oils anoint her forehead while priestesses chant genealogies that stretch back to the clan's founding. A shallow cut across her palm lets blood drip onto soil where our greatest heroes' ashes were scattered. Fire blooms from seemingly cold wood as if the gods themselves approve.
But the moment that changes everything comes when Grimjaw presses a brand shaped like our clan-mark against her shoulder. The iron heated in sacred flame should burn flesh and leave permanent scarring. Instead, it glows without causing pain, leaving behind a mark that shimmers like polished obsidian.
"Stoneborn Healer," he intones with satisfaction that borders on smugness. "The ancestors have spoken clearly. You belong among us, daughter of healing and peace."
Daughter.The word resonates through the grove, carried on voices both young and old. Around the circle, clan members repeat her new name until it becomes a chant, a song, a recognition that finds its way into the stars above.
Something shifts inside my chest as I observe her accept congratulations from warriors who would have executed her without hesitation mere weeks ago. Pride. Relief. She's chosen us, chosen this life, chosen permanence in a world where everything else feels temporary.
The ceremony concludes with ritual sharing of blood-wine and honeyed bread, but before we can fully settle intocelebration, scouts arrive with news that changes the evening's tone entirely.
"Human envoys approaching under peace banners," the lead scout reports. "Three riders, well-armed but making no hostile moves. They carry parley-sticks and royal seals."
I exchange glances with Eirian, seeing understanding pass between us. Word of today's battle has traveled fast, and someone with authority wants to discuss terms before the situation escalates beyond control. Her family, making it fact with the House Thorne.
"How long until they arrive?" I ask.
"Dawn, if they maintain current pace."
"Good. That gives us time to prepare." I turn to address the assembled clan. "The celebration continues, but quietly. Tomorrow we face diplomacy rather than warfare. Rest well and dream of peace, but keep weapons close."
The grove slowly empties as families drift back toward cooking fires and sleeping furs. I remain with Eirian, both of us lost in thought as we stare into flames that have witnessed countless ceremonies over generations.
"No going back now," she murmurs, touching the clan-mark that decorates her shoulder.
"Regrets?"
