Page 35 of Orc's Little Human
Grakul occupies his customary spot to the left of the fire, weathered face impassive as always. He's been my father's friend longer than I've been alive, fought beside him in battles that shaped the clan's current territory. If anyone can be counted on for wisdom rather than political maneuvering, it's him.
Onog settles into the remaining space with a grunt of effort, his bulk making the wooden seat creak ominously. He's been watching me carefully since the incident with my magic, those calculating eyes taking in details that others might miss. Whatever conclusions he's drawn, he's keeping them to himself for now.
I take my place as the circle completes itself, the five of us representing the backbone of Blackmaw leadership. In times past, this council has made decisions that determined whether we lived or died, whether we raided or fortified, whether we accepted alliances or declared war.
Tonight, we're here to decide the fate of one human woman who's managed to upend everything I thought I knew about magic and power.
Varok doesn't waste time with pleasantries. "That woman is an abomination."
His words hit the air like thrown stones, sharp and designed to draw blood. Around the fire, the other council members shift slightly—not quite taking sides yet, but preparing for the battle to come.
"She's a human," I reply evenly, refusing to let him see how his accusation affects me. "Nothing more."
"Nothing more?" Mol laughs, the sound harsh and mocking. "We all saw what happened out there, Korrath. Your magic—it changed when she appeared. Became something stronger, something unnatural."
"Magic responds to many things," Grakul says quietly, but there's something troubled in his voice. "Blood, will, emotion. Perhaps what we witnessed was simply?—"
"Simply what?" Varok cuts him off, leaning forward into the firelight. "Simply coincidence that his power flares every time she's near? Simply luck that his blood-forging has become twice as strong since he claimed her?"
How much have they been watching?The question sends cold fury through my veins. I've tried to be careful, tried to keep my magic use limited when Selene might be present. But apparently I haven't been careful enough.
"You're suggesting she's controlling my magic?" I keep my voice level despite the rage building in my chest. "That a human woman somehow has power over orcish blood-forging?"
"I'm suggesting she's cursed," Mol growls, his scarred face twisting with disgust. "Marked with something that gives her unnatural influence. Think about it—what do we really know about her? Where she came from, what was done to her before she reached us?"
The mark on Selene's collarbone burns in my memory, that intricate pattern of neptherium scarring that spoke to deliberate purpose. Someone branded her with it, but whether it was done to give her power or to control her, I still don't know.
"She could be a weapon," Varok continues, pressing his advantage. "Sent by humans to weaken us from within. To make you dependent on whatever sorcery they've bound into her flesh."
"Or she could be leading them straight to our gates," Mol adds, his voice rising with conviction. "Using her connection to your magic to signal our location, our strength. How do we know she hasn't already betrayed us?"
The accusations pile up like stones, each one designed to build a wall between me and any rational defense of Selene. They paint her as a threat, as an enemy, as something that needs to be eliminated before it can destroy us all.
And part of me—the part that's been trained since childhood to put clan survival above everything else—knows they might be right.
But then I remember the way she looked at me when my magic flared, the genuine shock and pain in her gray-blue eyes. Whatever power flows between us, whatever connection exists because of that mark burned into her skin, she's not controlling it any more than I am.
"She's not our enemy," I say finally, my voice cutting through their arguments like a blade through flesh. "And I won't hand her over to be executed based on fear and speculation."
Varok's eyes narrow to dangerous slits. "Then you're letting her curse cloud your judgment. This isn't about what you want, Korrath. This is about the survival of our clan."
"Our clan survives because I make the right decisions," I snarl, letting some of the violence I've been holding back bleed into my voice. "Not because I bow to paranoia and superstition."
"Right decisions?" Mol surges to his feet, his bulk casting massive shadows across the fire. "Like keeping a cursed human as a pet? Like letting her corrupt your magic? Like risking all our lives for whatever hold she has over you?"
The implication in his words—that I'm weak, that I've been compromised, that I can't be trusted to lead—makes fury explode behind my ribs like molten metal. I rise from my seat slowly, deliberately, letting them see exactly how much larger I am than even these seasoned warriors.
"Careful, Mol." The warning rumbles from deep in my chest, pitched low enough to promise violence. "You're coming very close to challenging my authority."
He takes a step back but doesn't back down completely. "Maybe someone needs to. Maybe it's time for new leadership—leadership that won't be swayed by a human's sorcery."
Varok stands as well, his hand dropping to rest on the hilt of his blade. "The woman dies, Korrath. Tonight. Before whatever curse she carries spreads any further."
"No."
The word comes out flat, final, carrying all the authority I can muster. Around the fire, the tension ratchets up another notch as the lines are drawn clear and sharp.
"She's under my protection," I continue, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "Anyone who moves against her moves against me."
