Page 16 of Orc's Little Human
The implications cascade through my mind like falling stones, each one carrying the weight of potential disaster. If the orcs discover what I am, what I can do, they won't just kill me quickly. They'll use me, drain every drop of enhancement from my body until there's nothing left but an empty husk marked with scars.
But the worst part, the part that makes my hands shake with something beyond fear, is the way I felt when his magic flowed through me. For just a moment, standing there in the training ground with power crackling between us, I felt... connected. Complete. Like some missing piece of myself had finally clicked into place.
That's not possible. I'm human. I don't have magic.
But the mark burns with truth I can't deny, reminding me that the line between human and something else blurred the moment they carved their sigil into my flesh. Whatever I am now, whatever they made me, it responds to Korrath's blood-forged power in ways that terrify and attract me in equal measure.
I press my face against the cool furs, trying to escape the heat radiating from my chest. The pain is already starting to fade, settling back into the familiar ache I've learned to ignore, but thememory of that connection lingers like an addiction waiting to be fed.
I need to stay away from him. Need to avoid triggering the mark again.
But even as I form the thought, I know it's a lie. Every instinct I've developed over the past year screams that understanding Korrath represents my best chance for survival. If I can figure out how his magic works, how the mark responds to it, maybe I can find a way to control the connection instead of being controlled by it.
It's just strategy. Gathering intelligence on the enemy.
Another lie, sweeter than the others. Because the truth lurking beneath my rationalizations is far more dangerous than simple survival tactics. The truth is that I want to feel that connection again, want to experience the rush of power flowing between us even if it kills me.
The truth is that I'm drawn to him despite every logical reason to fear and hate everything he represents.
Just for safety,I tell myself, pulling the leather tunic back over the mark's angry red outline.I need to watch him to understand what I'm dealing with. That's all.
But my hands continue to shake as I settle deeper into the furs, and the taste of lies sits bitter on my tongue.
8
KORRATH
The blood-forge leaves me hollow for three days. Though it is nowhere the severity it usually is.
My wrist throbs where I opened the vein, the ritual scars along my tusks ache like fresh wounds, and every movement feels like pushing through thick mud. It's always this way after a major working—the price of shaping stone and metal with nothing but will and lifeblood. But this exhaustion runs deeper than usual, settling into my bones like a winter cold that won't break.
I should be planning the next raid, reviewing our defenses, checking weapon stores. Instead, I find myself sprawled in the main room of my longhouse, watching Thali dart between the kitchen and the human's quarters like a moss-green whirlwind.
"She likes the shells better than the stones," my sister announces, dropping into the chair across from me with the boneless grace only children possess. Her amber eyes shine with excitement as she arranges her latest treasures on the wooden table—smooth river rocks, fragments of colored glass, and several spiral shells she must have collected from the stream beds.
"Does she." The words come out flatter than intended, but Thali doesn't seem to notice my lack of enthusiasm.
"Yes! And she knows things about them too. Like how the big ones make sounds when you blow through them, and how some shells used to be alive." She picks up a particularly large specimen, holding it up to catch the lamplight. "She told me stories about creatures that live in the water and build houses out of their own bodies."
I grunt acknowledgment while studying my sister's animated face. In the eight years since our parents died, I've seen her excited about new weapons, successful hunts, even the occasional pretty bauble some trader brought through camp. But this enthusiasm feels different—warmer, more open. Like she's finally found something that speaks to the part of her that isn't being shaped into a warrior.
The thought should please me. Should make me glad that she has someone to talk to besides blood-soaked clansmen and their endless discussions of violence. But instead, it sits in my gut like undigested meat, heavy and wrong.
"Where is she now?" I ask, though I'm not sure why the question matters.
"Getting dressed. I brought her new clothes today—well, not new, but cleaner than what she had. Human clothes are strange, Korrath. So many layers and ties and?—"
"Thali."
My sister stops mid-sentence, recognizing the tone that means she's wandering too far from the point. It's a voice I've used with her since she was barely walking, the one that saysfocuswithout crushing her spirit entirely.
"Right. Um, she should be ready soon. I thought maybe we could show her the rest of camp? She's been in that room for almost a week."
"No." The response comes without thought, automatic as breathing. "She stays in the longhouse."
"But—"
"She needs to stay here, Thali."
