VESHA
The wind cuts through my cloak like a blade forged from winter itself, each gust carrying the scent of pine and something darker—ancient stone and smoke that speaks of a fortress older than my grandfather's grandfather. I pull the fabric tighter around my shoulders, but the cold has already seeped into my bones during the three-day journey through the mountain passes. My fingers, numb despite my leather gloves, fumble for the pendant at my throat.
Still there. Still warm against my skin.
The relief is short-lived because I can feel it, that terrible, creeping awareness that my body is betraying me. When did I take my last dose of the tincture? Yesterday morning? The day before? My exhaustion has blurred the days together and now panic claws at my throat because I can't remember. I press the charmsteel pendant harder against my collarbone, willing its magic to hold.
It has to hold.
The tincture I brew myself has never failed me before. Noble daughters can't trust servants with such dangerous secrets, so I learned the delicate art of suppression from books stolen from my father's library. But I was only permitted a single vial for thejourney; the human guards are suspicious of alchemy. Without a consistent dose, the stress of travel has disrupted my careful routine.
"Move along," the human guard beside me grunts, his voice tight with nervousness. He won't meet my eyes. He hasn't looked at any of us tribute women directly since we entered the shadow of the Stoneblood peaks. Smart man. Looking at us means acknowledging what we are—offerings dressed in our finest gowns, walking toward an altar built of orc law and human desperation.
The other women shuffle forward in their sturdy boots, necessary for the treacherous mountain paths. Lady Meren walks with her chin up, every inch the earl's daughter, but I can smell the fear-sweat beneath her perfume. Jorin's niece keeps stumbling, her face as pale as parchment. They believe they're safe because they're neutrals, because they'll be returned once the formalities are over. And because a Warlord hasn't chosen a mate from the tribute in a hundred years. It's just a formality now.
They don't know what I know, that I'm the one who shouldn't be here.
The Stoneblood stronghold looms above us, carved directly from the rock of the mountain. Torches blaze in the gathering dusk, casting dancing shadows across walls that have witnessed centuries of war. The massive gates stand open like a maw. Beyond them, I glimpse the courtyard where our fate will be decided.
My mother's words echo in my memory, whispered in the darkness of our solar just days ago: "If they discover what you are, they'll never let you go. An omega claimed by an orc is lost forever, body and soul. The bond breaks a woman's mind, makes her crave things that would destroy her." Her voice dropped even lower. "Lord Blackmoor has already paid half the brideprice. If you don't return to fulfill the marriage contract, our family will be ruined. He's not a patient man, Vesha. He's not a forgiving one either."
I push the memory away and focus on the mental checklist that has kept me alive for twenty-four years. Pendant against skin—yes, though it feels strangely warm, almost hot. Breathing controlled—mostly. Scent suppressed—it has to be, because the alternative doesn't bear thinking about.
But something feels wrong. The fear that my tincture is failing gnaws at me, a hollow ache in my belly that grows stronger with each step. The magic that has hidden my true nature since my first bleeding is threadbare, and I can feel it unraveling like poorly woven cloth.
Hold together, I plead silently. Just until the midwinter feast. Just until I can return to marry that ancient lord and secure our family's future. All I have to do is survive without anyone discovering what I am.
We pass through the gates. The sound of our footsteps echoes off thick stone walls, built to withstand siege engines. The corridors branch off in multiple directions, some leading to chambers I can see, others disappearing into what look like ancient mining passages carved deep into the mountain's heart. Orc guards watch us from the shadows, their massive forms still as carved statues, but I can feel their attention like a weight against my skin. They don't speak, don't move, but their presence fills the courtyard with a tension that makes my blood freeze.
The human envoy leading our procession—Lord Harwick, my father's cousin—clears his throat nervously.
"The tribute has arrived as agreed," he calls out formally, his voice cracking slightly. "Five maidens of noble blood, and with them, the agreed-upon tithe of grain and iron."
Silence stretches like a bowstring drawn too tight. Then footsteps echo from the shadows beyond the torchlight, measured and heavy. The sound makes something low in my belly flutter—not fear, but something worse.
He emerges from the darkness like violence given form.
I've seen orc warriors before during trade negotiations and peace talks. But this one—this one makes the air feel thin, makes my lungs struggle to draw breath. He's massive, easily eight feet of muscle and controlled power, moving with a predator's fluid ease, a certainty in every step that says he can kill anything that challenges him.
His skin is the deep, olive green of moss-covered stone, stretched over a frame built for war. Black leather armor covers his torso, not ceremonial but functional, scarred and weathered from real battles. Dark hair falls past his shoulders in a curtain that frames sharp cheekbones and a jaw that could have been carved from granite, where two powerful tusks jut up from his lower jaw to rest against his upper lip.
But it's his eyes that steal my breath—orange as raging flame and burning with an intelligence that misses nothing. They sweep over our small group with the dispassion of a butcher selecting meat, and I shrink back instinctively when that molten gaze passes over me.
Don't notice me, I think desperately. Let me be invisible.
But something shifts in his expression when his eyes find mine, a subtle tightening around his mouth that makes my heart hammer against my ribs. He stops walking, his massive frame freezing.
I realize with dawning horror that I'm not invisible at all.
I'm the only thing he sees.
"Warlord Ghazrek," Lord Harwick stammers, executing a bow that would be graceful if his hands weren't shaking. "The tribute is presented according to the terms of the treaty."
The Warlord—because of course this mountain of death and destruction is their leader—doesn't acknowledge the words. His burning gaze remains fixed on me, and I can feel something building in the air between us, thick and electric as the moment before lightning strikes.
My pendant grows hotter against my throat.
"The ritual will begin at moonrise," he announces, his voice like distant thunder, low and rumbling and full of power. "All will witness."
