This is the bond, I realize with growing alarm. This is what it feels like when we're apart.
I try to stand and immediately regret the decision. My body protests every movement, muscles sore in ways that remind me exactly how thoroughly I was claimed. The memory sendsa flush through me that is no longer shame, but something warmer, more complex.
I begged for it, I remember. And he gave me everything I asked for.
The clothes I wore to the ritual are gone. In their place, someone has left a simple dress of deep blue wool, soft leather slippers suitable only for walking on polished stone floors, and a cloak lined with fur. The message is clear—I'm a guest, but one who isn't equipped for travel.
I dress quickly, trying not to think about how the fabric feels against hypersensitive skin. The door opens easily under my hand—no locks, no guards. Why would there be? The bond is a better chain than any iron shackle.
The corridors outside are carved from dark stone, lit by torches that cast dancing shadows on the walls. I choose a direction at random and start walking, telling myself I'm exploring. But a deeper question pulls me forward: how far does this chain stretch?
I pass training rooms where the scent of sweat and violence hangs heavy in the air, halls lined with weapons that could cleave a man in half. This is a warrior's fortress. A place where strength is the only law that matters.
The sound of laughter stops me cold.
Not the harsh laughter of warriors, but something lighter, more innocent. Children's laughter. I follow the sound down a side corridor until I reach an open doorway, and what I see beyond stops me in my tracks.
A nursery. Warm and bright, with carved wooden toys scattered across soft rugs. And children—orc children, ranging from toddlers to perhaps ten years old, playing together with a carefree joy I haven't witnessed in years.
They notice me immediately, their games stopping as curious eyes turn my way. I expect fear, hostility, the kind of suspicionany outsider might face. Instead, the smallest one—a little girl with her hair in tiny braids—toddles toward me with arms outstretched.
She's beautiful in a way that's distinctly not human. Her skin has the pale green of new spring leaves, almost translucent in the warm light, and tiny bumps along her jawline hint at tusks that haven't emerged yet. Her ears are slightly pointed, and when she smiles, her canine teeth are already sharper than any human child's.
"Pretty!" she declares in heavily accented Common, reaching for the blue fabric of my dress with fingers that end in small but noticeable claws. "Pretty lady!"
"Lavi, no," an older boy warns, but there's no real alarm in his voice. His own small, emerging tusks peek out when he speaks, and his build is already broader than a human child his age. "She's the mate of the Warlord. Father says we mustn't bother her."
Mate. The word sends a shiver through me, but these children say it so matter-of-factly, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm not bothering anyone," little Lavi declares with the confidence only small children possess. She tugs at my skirt until I kneel down to her level, then pats my cheek with warm fingers. Her touch is gentle despite the small claws. "You smell nice. Like flowers."
Despite everything, I couldn’t help smiling. "You must be Lavi. Can you tell me your friends' names?"
"This is Jorik and Nala and Thrum," she says proudly, pointing to each child in turn. "Are you going to have babies too?"
Heat floods my cheeks at the innocent question, and my hand drifts unconsciously to my belly. Could I already be carrying Ghazrek's child? The possibility should terrify me, butlooking at these beautiful, fierce little ones, I feel something unexpected stir in my chest.
"I... I don't know," I manage.
"You will," Jorik says with matter-of-fact conviction. "Mates always have babies. That's how it works."
The casual acceptance in their voices is jarring. In the human lands, my omega status was a shameful secret, my worth measured only in backroom deals for my breeding potential. Here, these children speak of it as if it is a source of honor.
"We play hiding games!" Lavi announces suddenly, bouncing on her toes with excitement. "We're the best hiders in the whole stronghold! Want to see?"
"Lavi can hide anywhere," Jorik adds with obvious pride in his friend. "Last week she hid for half a day and nobody could find her! The whole clan was looking."
"Don't you... don't you mind that I'm human?" I ask, curious despite myself.
Lavi tilts her head, considering, her pointed ears twitching slightly. "Father says humans are smaller and break easier, so we have to be gentle. But you don't look broken."
"Your father sounds wise.”
"He is," she agrees solemnly. "He says the Warlord picked you special, and that makes you special too."
Special. Not a liability, not a commodity, not a dirty secret to be managed. Special.
I spend longer with them than I intended, drawn in despite myself by their innocent acceptance. When I finally tear myself away, it's with the uncomfortable realization that these children have shown me more genuine welcome in an hour than my own family managed in years. The thought follows me as I continue deeper into the stronghold, my steps now aimed with purpose. I need to understand the limits of this bond.
