"That's one word for it."
"Her bio says she's a competitive axe-thrower and that she's looking for a 'worthy mate to share the glory of battle.'"
"Sounds about right."
"Should I be worried?"
I think about it seriously. Brunhilde is exactly what my family wants: traditional, fierce, unquestionably orcish. She'd give me strong children and never challenge clan authority. She'd fit seamlessly into the life they've planned for me.
She'd also bore me to tears inside a month.
"No," I say. "You shouldn't be worried."
"Good. Because I was about to challenge her to a bake-off for your honor, and I'm pretty sure she'd just eat the mixing bowls."
"Trinity."
"Yeah?"
"Whatever happens with my clan, whatever rituals or politics or arranged marriages they throw at us. I'm not going anywhere."
"You sure about that?"
"Yes." And I am. Standing in this anonymous hotel gym, surrounded by the smell of disinfectant and the distant sound of traffic, I'm more certain than I've been about anything in years. "I'm sure."
"Then we'll handle Brunhilde together too."
"Together."
The word's starting to fit better.
I spend the rest of the morning researching ritual law and crafting arguments for why a public relationship with a human might actually serve orc interests. It's thin, but it's possible. Show humans that orcs are capable of gentleness, partnership, domesticity. Break down barriers that have kept our peoples separate for generations.
It might work. It has to work.
Because exile is starting to look like a small price to pay for what I'd be keeping.
The studio parking lot reveals three things immediately: too many news vans, a camera crew I don't know, and Brunhilde Ironthew standing next to a rental SUV that looks too small for her frame.
She spots me. Waves. The motion's aggressive enough to qualify as a threat display.
"Korgan Dongoran! Your aunt said you'd be taller!"
I'm six-foot-seven. Brunhilde appears to be judging height by mountain standards.
"Brunhilde." I nod, keeping distance. "This is unexpected."
"Your family sent me! Said you needed proper courtship from a proper female!" She flexes again, biceps straining against what appears to be tactical gear. "I brought my ceremonial battle-axe! For the engagement ritual!"
Of course she did.
"There won't be an engagement ritual."
"Your modesty is charming! But I've already booked the ritual space for next week! My father's sending the dowry goats via cargo plane!"
A production assistant I recognize—Marcus, Trinity's friend from the crew—appears at my elbow. "Uh, Korgan? We've got a situation inside. Trinity asked me to find you."
Perfect excuse. "Apologies, Brunhilde. Duty calls."
