"However." The word hits like thunder. "Certain elders have reminded us of older laws. Laws written in the First Tongue, carved on stones that predate our current traditions."
Elder Drakmoor shuffles forward, a scroll of hide clutched in his gnarled hands. "From the Chronicle of Beginnings," he announces. "When ice meets fire in willing union, when sight flows from one soul to another, when the young choose what the old fear to attempt, then shall the Sundered Lands know healing."
My breath catches. The Chronicle of Beginnings, oldest text in orc lore. Most consider it myth, pretty stories told to explain natural phenomena. But if the elders invoke it as law...
"Furthermore," Drakmoor continues, "it is written:Let no custom bar the path of true joining, for in such unions lies the strength to bridge what was broken. The Chronicle speaks directly to this situation."
Murmurs ripple through the assembled crowd. I see some faces light with wonder, others darken with skepticism. But they're listening. The old prophecies still carry weight, even in our practical age.
Thyssa raises her staff for silence. "The Moot has debated through the night. We find ourselves at the confluence of ancient law and present need. Therefore, we render this judgment: the bond-claim is recognized, but under conditions."
Conditions.I should have expected as much. Nothing comes freely from the elders.
"First," Thyssa declares, "this union shall be considered trial-bound for one full turning of seasons. During that time, both parties will be observed, tested, measured against the promises made here."
"What kind of tests?" Cyra asks, her voice steady despite the tremor I feel through our bond.
"Tests of loyalty. Of strength. Of wisdom." Elder Korthak steps forward, his massive frame blocking out the rising sun. "You claim to bridge our peoples. Prove it. Show us this union brings benefit, not destruction."
"And if we fail your tests?" I growl.
"Then the bond will be severed by sacred rite, and the human returned to her people." Thyssa's eyes glitter with cold determination. "This we swear by the Ancestors."
A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with winter wind. Sacred rites can break any bond, even soul-deep connections like ours. They would literally tear apart our joined spirits, leaving us both damaged beyond repair.
But they're offering us a chance. More than I dared hope for when we entered this circle.
"We accept," Cyra says before I can speak. "One year to prove ourselves worthy."
"The human speaks boldly for one barely tested," Elder Thyssa observes. "But courage has its place in the reckoning."
"There is more," Drakmoor adds, unfurling another section of the chronicle. "If this union is to be recognized, it must be performed according to the oldest rites. No simple claiming ceremony will suffice."
My heart pounds against my ribs. The oldest rites, I know what he means. The Moonlight Binding, performed only during the dark of the moon when the barriers between worlds grow thin. It's not just a wedding ceremony; it's a spiritual communion that permanently intertwines two souls.
"The dark moon rises three nights hence," Thyssa announces. "If you would be truly bound, present yourselves at the Sacred Grove when moonlight touches the Joining Stone."
"We will be there," I promise.
"See that you are." Thyssa's expression softens slightly. "Despite our reservations, we do not wish you ill. But the survival of our people weighs heavier than individual desires."
The formal Moot begins to dissolve, elders drifting away in small groups. Some shoot us approving nods; others maintain stony disapproval. But the judgment is rendered, the path set.
One year.It's not what I wanted, but it's more than I expected. And if we succeed...
"Vorrak." Brakka appears at my elbow, his scarred face creased with concern. "You sure about this? Those tests they mentioned won't be simple challenges."
"I know." I keep my voice low, aware that curious ears still surround us. "But we have no choice. Fight for acceptance or face separation."
"Could always run," he suggests. "Take her deep into the wastes, start fresh somewhere beyond their reach."
The thought has occurred to me. Find some isolated valley, build a life away from clan politics and ancient prejudices. But it would mean abandoning everything I've ever known, and Cyra would never see her people again.
"No," I decide. "We stay. We prove them wrong."
Brakka nods, though worry still clouds his features. "Then you'll need allies. I can't speak for all the Ice-Blood, but the hunters respect you. That counts for something."
"And the others?"
