Page 40 of Orc's Little Human
I straighten, turning back to face Varok with new purpose flowing through my veins like molten iron. The doubt hasn't disappeared, but it's been transformed into something else—cold determination mixed with the kind of fury that burns everything in its path.
"Enough talk," Varok growls, raising his massive blade in both hands. "Let's finish this."
He comes at me like an avalanche given form, his sword cutting through the air with enough force to split stone. I duck under the first strike, feeling the wind of its passage ruffle my hair, then pivot to drive my blade toward his exposed ribs.
Steel rings against steel as he catches my thrust on his crossguard, the impact sending vibrations up both our arms. We break apart, circle each other like hunting cats, each looking for the opening that will end this.
He's faster than I remembered.The thought flickers through my mind as I barely avoid his next attack, a diagonal cut that would have opened me from shoulder to hip.And stronger.
Varok presses his advantage, launching a series of brutal overhead strikes that force me to give ground. Each impact against my blade sends shock waves through my shoulders, reminding me that he has reach and weight on his side.
But I have something else.
I draw the curved knife from my belt with my off-hand, letting a thin line of blood well along my palm as the edge bites deep. The crimson drops hit the packed earth at my feet, and power responds like a hunting dog hearing its master's whistle.
The ground beneath Varok's feet suddenly erupts upward, stone spikes jutting through packed earth to catch at his legs. He leaps backward with orcish agility, but the distraction gives me the opening I need.
My sword finds the gap in his armor, sliding between iron plates to score a line across his ribs. Dark blood flows, staining leather and metal, and Varok's roar of pain echoes across the encampment.
"Blood-forging," he snarls, pressing one hand to his wounded side. "Just like the old stories. Just like the cursed magic that destroyed our ancestors."
Around the circle, I can hear the warriors muttering—some in awe, some in fear, all of them recognizing power they've only heard described in fireside tales. But beneath their voices, I sense something else.
The magic feels stronger.Not just the usual rush of power that comes with blood sacrifice, but something deeper. Something that resonates in my bones like struck metal, amplifying the force I can channel through stone and iron.
I risk a glance toward Selene and find her watching with intense concentration, one hand pressed to her collarbonewhere her tunic hides whatever mark she carries. There's pain in her expression, but also determination—like she's forcing herself to endure something burning.
She's doing this.The realization hits me like a physical blow.Whatever that mark is, it's connected to my magic. She's amplifying it.
Varok doesn't give me time to process the implications. He charges again, his sword weaving patterns of death through the air as he tries to overwhelm my defenses. But now I have the earth itself as an ally.
Stone rises to meet his blade, deflecting strikes that would have shattered bone. Iron spikes erupt from the ground to force him into predictable movements. The very soil beneath his feet shifts and buckles, making him fight for balance as well as position.
"Fight like a warrior!" he bellows, frustration bleeding through his voice as another attack is turned aside by risen stone. "Not like some cave-dwelling shaman!"
I am fighting like a warrior.The thought burns through me as I press my advantage, blood from a dozen small cuts feeding power into the earth around us.I'm fighting like a Draegon.
My ancestors didn't apologize for their gifts. They didn't hide their power or pretend to be something less than they were. They used every weapon at their disposal to protect what mattered most.
Just like I'm going to do.
I slash my palm deeper, letting more blood fall as I channel everything I have into one final working. The ground beneath us cracks and heaves, stone pillars erupting in a rough circle around Varok. Not to trap him—to funnel him toward where I'm waiting.
He realizes the trap a heartbeat too late. As he dodges between rising stones, his path becomes predictable, his optionslimited to the corridor I've carved for him. When he emerges from the maze of rock, my blade is already moving.
The steel punches through his chest armor like it's made of parchment, sliding between ribs to find his heart. Varok's eyes go wide with shock, then narrow with hate as he realizes he's dying.
"Cursed," he whispers, blood frothing at his lips. "You're both cursed."
"Maybe," I admit, twisting the blade to ensure the wound is mortal. "But we're alive."
He falls backward, my sword pulling free with a wet sound that echoes in the sudden silence. Around the circle, sixty warriors stare at their fallen champion, at the blood-soaked earth, at the stone spikes that still jut from the ground like accusing fingers.
They're afraid.I can see it in their faces, smell it in the air like smoke from a green fire. Not just of my magic, but of what it represents. Change. Power they don't understand. A future where the old ways might not be enough.
I wipe my blade clean on Varok's cloak, then turn to face the assembled clan. These warriors have followed me for eight years, bled beside me in a dozen raids, trusted me to lead them through famine and war.
And I'm about to betray that trust.
