Cyra blinks, clearly not expecting the question. "Very little, honored elder. Only that they ended before my grandmother's time."
"Indeed. Ended because humans and orcs could not share the same sky." His stick taps against the ground. "Ended with blood and bitterness, with walls built high between our peoples." He looks directly at her. "Yet here you stand. Not as enemy or victim, but as chosen mate to one of our finest hunters. Perhaps the spirits work in ways we do not understand."
Hope flickers in me, but Elder Thyssa isn't finished. "Drakmoor speaks of ancient history. I speak of immediate danger. This woman carries noble blood. Her people will come for her, bringing soldiers and steel. Would you have us risk clan extinction for one hunter's lust?"
"My betrothed will not come," Cyra says quickly. "I escaped that marriage. Chose exile over duty."
"But your family will. Your House. They will not simply forget their lost daughter."
Cyra's face goes pale, but her voice stays steady. "Then let them come. Let them see what I have become, what I have chosen. Perhaps they too can learn."
"Learn to die by orc blade?" Elder Korthak's laugh is harsh. "You speak of peace, but bring only war."
"No." Cyra steps closer to him, fearless despite his towering bulk. "I bring possibility. I bring hope that our peoples might find common ground."
"Pretty sentiment. But hope doesn't stop cavalry charges."
"Neither does hatred," she shoots back. "Hatred only breeds more hatred, more death. I've seen it in my own House—the endless feuds, the pointless conflicts. Always fighting, never building." Her voice grows passionate. "But here, with your people, I've seen something different. Strength that protectsrather than conquers. Wisdom that preserves rather than destroys."
She's magnificent. Standing there among the most powerful orcs in the realm, arguing for her life and our future with nothing but words and courage. My chest swells with pride, with possessive heat.
Mine.
Elder Thyssa raises her staff. "The human speaks well. But words are not deeds. What proof do you offer of this bond's worth?"
Cyra looks at me, and I see the question in her eyes. Permission to reveal what we discovered last night, in the privacy of my lodge. I nod slightly.
She takes a deep breath. "The bond grants me sight," she says simply.
The elders explode into noise. Sight with the ability to perceive magical currents, to read the hidden patterns that shape the world. It's a gift possessed by perhaps one orc in a thousand. For a human to claim it...
"Impossible," Elder Thyssa snarls. "Humans cannot see the true patterns."
"Can't they?" Cyra closes her eyes, her breathing steadying. When she opens them again, they've taken on an odd shimmer. "Elder Korthak, you carry pain in your left shoulder. Old wound, poorly healed. The bone-deep ache flares when storms approach."
Korthak jerks backward, startled. His hand instinctively moves to his shoulder, exactly where Cyra indicated.
She turns to Elder Drakmoor. "You fear death above all else. It shadows you like a hungry wolf, growing closer each day. That's why you cling so fiercely to the old ways. Change feels like surrender to you."
Thyssa goes white, her mouth working soundlessly.
"And you, Elder Thyssa." Cyra's gaze fixes on the Moot leader. "You see clearly, perhaps too clearly. The leadership crushes your spirit. You long for simpler times, when choices were easier and consequences less dire."
Thyssa stares at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nods. "The sight runs true in you. But this only deepens the mystery. How does a human soul learn orc magic?"
"Perhaps," Elder Drakmoor says thoughtfully, "the question is not how, but why. What purpose do the spirits serve with this unprecedented gift?"
All eyes turn to Cyra again. She looks uncertain for the first time since the Moot began. "I don't know. I only know that the sight came with the bond. Like a doorway opening in my mind."
"Or a bridge," I say suddenly. The words come from nowhere, but they feel right. "A bridge between our peoples."
Elder Drakmoor's eyes sharpen. "Continue."
"She sees as we see now. Understands as we understand. But she remembers being human, remembers their ways." I step closer to Cyra, close enough to catch her scent. "What if that's the point? What if the spirits tire of the old divisions?"
"You speak of prophecy," Elder Thyssa says slowly. "Of the Joining Times foretold in the oldest songs."
My blood runs cold. The Joining Times, a mythical era when orc and human would unite against some great threat. Stories told to cubs, nothing more.
