"Impossible." I keep my voice low, eyes never leaving Cyra. "The bond-scent marks her now. Every orc within fifty leagues can smell it."
It's true. The soul-bond changed her, left its signature woven through her very essence. Sweet human flesh now carries undertones of ice and iron, storm-wind and ancient magic. She's still Cyra, still the woman who melted into my arms last night. But she's also something new.
Something unprecedented.
Elder Thyssa pounds her staff against the frozen ground. "Silence!" Her voice pierces through the chaos. "Let the human speak her piece before we decide her fate."
Her fate.My jaw clenches hard enough to crack teeth. These decrepit fools think they can judge what belongs to me? I take a step forward, but Cyra's eyes find mine across the circle. The look she gives me is steady, calm.
Trust me,it says.
So I stop. I wait. I let her fight her own battle, though every instinct screams to shield her from their hatred.
Cyra steps into the center of the circle, her borrowed furs making her look small against the towering elders. But when she speaks, her voice resounds across the Moot with surprising strength.
"Honored elders," she begins, using the formal address Brakka taught her. "I come before you not as conqueror or spy, but as one who seeks understanding."
"Pretty words," sneers Elder Thyssa. "But words are wind. What substance do you offer?"
Cyra reaches for the bone talisman at her throat, my talisman, the one I carved for her protection. Her fingers close around it, and I see her draw strength from the touch.
"I offer myself," she says simply. "My life, my choices, my future. All freely given."
The murmurs start again, but Elder Thyssa's glare keeps them subdued. She leans forward, studying Cyra with ancient eyes. "You understand what you claim? The soul-bond is not some human marriage contract. It binds spirit to spirit, life to life. Death itself cannot sever such ties."
"I know." Cyra's voice doesn't waver. "I felt it form. I chose to accept it."
Liar.The bond took us both by surprise, erupting from passion and need in ways neither of us expected. But I won't contradict her. Not here. Not when she's fighting for both our futures.
Elder Korthak rises, his bulk casting shadows across the circle. "The elements reject such unions. Fire burns cold at your presence. Earth shifts uneasily beneath your feet. Even now, the spirits whisper warnings."
Cyra turns to face him directly. "Then perhaps the spirits need to learn, as I have learned. As your own kinsman has learned." Her eyes flick to me, and heat floods my chest. "Wisdom doesn't come from ancient laws alone. Sometimes it comes from stepping into the unknown."
"Blasphemy!" Elder Thyssa slams her staff down. "You dare lecture us on wisdom? You, who has lived barely two decades?"
"No." Cyra's voice grows stronger. "I lecture no one. I simply ask you to see what stands before you." She spreads her arms wide. "I am not the same woman who stumbled into your lands weeks ago. The bond changed me, yes. But it also changed him." She points directly at me. "Your warrior, your hunter. Tell me, elders, does he seem diminished by our union?"
Every eye in the circle turns to me, looking for signs of corruption or weakness.
They won't find any. If anything, the bond made me stronger. Sharper. More focused than I've been since my exile began.
Elder Thyssa studies me for a long moment. "Vorrak of the Ice-Blood. Do you claim this human as true mate?"
The formal words. Once spoken in the Moot, they become law. Binding as blood, unbreakable as bone. I step forward into the circle, feeling the tradition settle on my shoulders.
"I claim her," I say, my voice carrying to every corner of the gathering. "By ice and iron, by storm and stone. She is mine, and I am hers."
Gasps ripple through the crowd. Some elders nod approvingly, the bond-claim is ancient, respected. Others look like they've tasted sour milk.
"The claiming is witnessed," Elder Korthak intones. "But witnessed does not mean accepted. The Moot must decide if such a bond serves the greater good."
"How can it serve anything but chaos?" Elder Thyssa's voice rises to a shriek. "Humans are weak! Soft! They know nothing of our ways, our struggles. This union will birth only mongrels and madness!"
"Will it?" The new voice comes from the boundary of the circle. Elder Drakmoor, oldest of the Bone-Tooth clan, shuffles forward. His walking stick scrapes against ice with each step. "I have lived ninety-seven winters. I have seen many changes, many challenges. Some we faced with wisdom. Others..." He pauses, watery eyes fixing on each elder in turn. "Others we faced with fear."
The circle falls silent. When Elder Drakmoor speaks, even his enemies listen. Age brings respect, if nothing else.
"Tell me, young human," he says to Cyra. "What do you know of the Sundering Wars?"
