But Elder Drakmoor is nodding. "When ice-blood mingles with sun-blood," he recites. "When sight flows from flesh to flesh. When the young lead where the old fear to follow."
"Fairy tales," Elder Thyssa snaps. "Ancient nonsense."
"Is it?" Elder Drakmoor's voice carries new authority. "Look at what stands before us. Human woman bearing orc sight. Soul-bond freely given and freely received. The elements themselves blessed this union, else it could not have formed."
Murmurs ripple through the circle. Some nods, some head-shaking. The Moot divides before my eyes.
Cyra reaches for my hand, and I let her take it. Her fingers intertwine with mine, human warmth mixing with orc strength. The bond hums between us, contentment and determination.
"Honored elders," she says. "I ask for nothing but the chance to prove myself worthy. Grant me a trial period. Let me show that this union brings strength, not weakness."
"And if you fail?" Elder Korthak demands.
Cyra's grip on my hand tightens. "Then I submit to whatever judgment you deem fit."
No.I want to roar denial, to sweep her away from these calculating eyes. But she shoots me a warning look.
Trust me.
Elder Thyssa stands, her expression unreadable. "The Moot will consider your words. Until dawn, we deliberate."
The circle begins to dissolve, elders clustering in small groups to argue and whisper. Cyra sags slightly as the pressure lifts, but her spine stays straight.
"You did well," I murmur, leading her away from the crowd.
"Did I? Half of them look ready to execute me on principle."
"Half isn't all." I squeeze her hand gently. "And Elder Drakmoor carries significant influence."
She nods, but worry lines crease her forehead. We walk in silence toward my lodge, both lost in thought. Whatever the Moot decides, our lives will change come morning.
For better or worse.
Dawn creeps across the ice fields like spilled blood, painting the world in shades of amber and crimson. I stand at the border of the ceremonial circle, watching the elders emerge from their night-long deliberations. Their faces reveal nothing, carved from stone and winter wind.
Cyra presses close to my side, her warmth seeping through the furs. Neither of us slept. How could we? Our entire future hangs on whatever words these ancient orcs speak next.
Elder Thyssa steps forward, her weathered staff scraping against frozen ground. The sound cuts through morning silence like blade on bone. Behind her, the other elders arrange themselves in ceremonial formation—a half-moon of judgment and tradition.
"Vorrak of the Ice-Blood," Thyssa's voice carries across the circle. "Step forward with your claimed mate."
We move together, boots crunching on snow-crusted earth. The bond hums between us, steady as heartbeat, strong as storm. Whatever comes, we face it unified.
"The Moot has spoken," Thyssa continues. "But first, answer truthfully. Do you stand by your claim, knowing the consequences it may bring?"
"I do." The words come without hesitation. "By ice and iron, by storm and stone."
"And you, human. Do you accept this claiming, knowing it binds your soul beyond death itself?"
Cyra's chin lifts. "I accept. Freely chosen, freely given."
Thyssa nods slowly. "Then hear the Moot's judgment."
My muscles tense. If they rule against us, I'll have perhaps three heartbeats to act. Grab Cyra, fight our way to the stables, flee into the wastes. It won't work, too many hunters, too much distance to cover. But I'll die before I let them harm her.
"The ancient laws speak clearly," Thyssa begins. "No bond between orc and human has been sanctioned in living memory. The risks are manifold, the precedent dangerous."
Here it comes.My hand drifts toward my axe.
