In orc tradition, such intimacy signals intent. A claiming. But humans operate by different codes, ones that shift like river currents. What I interpreted as invitation might have been mere curiosity. What felt like bonding might have been entertainment.
I pace the orc quarters after the elimination ceremony, my mind churning. Three human contestants went home tonight, including the blonde who'd spent the evening shooting poison glances at Trinity. But Trinity remains. As do I. The producers announced tomorrow's challenges with their usual theatrical enthusiasm, but their words blurred into meaningless noise.
All I could focus on was the taste of cinnamon still lingering on my tongue.
My comm unit buzzes. Grax, my old war-brother, calling from the mountain territories.
"Korgan." His voice carries the familiar gravel of home. "How goes your diplomatic mission among the soft-skins?"
"Complicated." I settle onto the reinforced chair that creaks ominously under my weight. "I require counsel."
"Ah. You've encountered resistance? Political maneuvering?"
"I kissed one of them."
Silence stretches across the connection. Then Grax's booming laugh echoes through the speaker.
"A human female? During combat negotiations?"
"During a..." I search for orc words that fit. "A ritual food-sharing. Under artificial starlight. She brought me something she'd crafted with her own hands."
"Food gifts." Grax's tone turns thoughtful. "Among the northern clans, accepting crafted food creates blood-debt. But humans..." He pauses. "Did she offer it formally? With ceremony?"
"She seemed nervous. Kept touching her hair. Said it was experimental."
"Experimental." Another pause. "Brother, I believe she was courting you."
The word hits like a war-hammer to the chest. Courting. The deliberate pursuit of a mate through demonstration of skill and worthiness.
"You're certain?"
"Food crafted specifically for one individual, offered in private, followed by mouth-contact? Either courting or assassination attempt. Given that you're still breathing..."
Heat builds in my body, part excitement, part terror. If Trinity was courting me—if that kiss was declaration rather than curiosity—then I've gravely underestimated the situation.
"What do I do?"
"Return the gesture. Demonstrate your worthiness as a provider and protector. Have you brought her fresh kill?"
"Grax."
"Right, humans don't eat raw meat. Flowers, then. Or shiny objects. They love shiny objects."
"That's magpies."
"Close enough. Oh! War paint. Show her your battle honors. Humans respect displays of strength."
I close my eyes. "These humans are different. Softer. More..." I struggle for words. "More concerned with feelings than strength."
"Feelings." Grax says the word like it tastes sour. "What manner of warfare is this?"
"Not warfare. Courtship."
"Same thing, different weapons." His voice brightens with what I recognize as dangerous enthusiasm. "I have it. Scent-marking. Cover yourself in pleasant oils to signal availability. The elders say human females are driven by scent, like tracking hounds."
"I am not dousing myself in perfume."
"Not perfume. Musk. Powerful musk that announces your virility from great distances."
