As we entered his hut, he didn't lift his head to greet Malek. Still, the Ruk’hai gave a respectful bow before pulling me forward.
"Na’rk Kroshak—" he began to speak in their language, but I could only recognize a few scattered words: my name, akra’yn, and Marukoksha.
The shaman sighed and finally raised his head. His green eyes, clouded by a milky film, fixed on me with a disconcerting intensity. He didn't blink; he simply appraised me, stretching the silence far beyond the point of comfort.
I cast a sidelong glance at Malek, but he remained motionless and patient, like he had expected this. My discomfort grew. Kroshak didn't possess Malek’s brute strength, yet he radiated an ancient power that was difficult to define. He raised his hand, his fingers thin and gnarled, and gestured for me to come closer. I tried to recoil by reflex, but Malek guided me forward with a light touch.
Kroshak touched my arm, then my face, and finally the top of my head, where the ashe flower rested. I shuddered at thecontact. A cold, almost freezing energy seeped into me, leaving a restless trail beneath my skin.
The shaman closed his eyes and murmured something that sounded like a chant in Okshakai. His touch lingered, tracing my skin, searching for the truth beneath it. My mind raced, on the verge of panic. If he were a true shaman, he would feel the magic of Ceilte running through my veins. He would know that I was not an orc from Oguk, but Fionnuala, the High Fae princess, daughter of their greatest enemy.
Kroshak broke the contact and let out a slow sigh before opening his eyes. His thin, ashen lips curved into an enigmatic smile, far too indecipherable to bring me any relief.
"The earth speaks through you." His voice was a dry whisper, yet it resonated throughout the small hut. "The ancient magic of Marukoksha."
Malek, who had remained rigid, finally relaxed his shoulders and let out a breath, his relief evident. "I knew it."
The shaman turned his gaze back to me, and something brightened in his weathered face. Then he turned to Malek and added, "Teach her our ways. She will need them."
Chapter 12
News spread like wildfire through the village. Malek didn’t say a word, but his posture, the way he led me, and the fact that I walked at his side rather than behind him spoke volumes. Whispers turned into bows—the orcs who had once regarded me as a stranger now touched their foreheads in respect.
It was uncomfortable.
Kalisha watched from a distance, her expression stunned. Her brown eyes tracked Malek, then lingered on the flower in my ear, before she offered a hurried bow.
Malek led me to his hut; the bone beads clattered as they closed behind us. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, as if dozens of orc eyes remained fixed on my back, even through the walls.
I watched the Ruk’hai settle into his massive chair before he gestured for me to do the same. I had to admit, I was confused. I didn't understand what my role was now; the shaman had seemed convinced that I belonged in this place, which was impossible. As for Malek… I had no idea what he wanted from me.
I sat in the chair across from him. The leather was surprisingly comfortable, softened by time and use. I crossed my legs and rested my hands in my lap, waiting for him to speak.
Malek furrowed his brows briefly before settling back into his usual stern expression. “Repeat. Orok mekut’er okshakai.” He pointed first at me, then at his own mouth.
I stared at him, bewildered. "You want me to... repeat the phrase?"
Malek crossed his arms and said it again. "Orok mekut’er okshakai."
I swallowed hard. "O… orok mekut’er… okshakai," I tried, stumbling over the harsh sounds.
Something shifted in his gaze. It wasn’t exactly approval, but it wasn’t disapproval either.
“It means: you learn Okshakai,” he said slowly. “Mekut’er rhark’n.” He raised his clenched fists and mimicked a strike in the air. “To fight.”
Then he changed the gesture.
“Mekut’er kranshak.” This time, his movement mimicked a spear being thrown. “To hunt.”
I followed every gesture, trying to absorb it all. When I dared to pronounce the words, however, my tongue faltered; they came out harsh and strange in my mouth. Okshakai didn’t flow like Common, the standard High Fae tongue, melodic and smooth. The orc language was all sharp cuts, strong consonants, and guttural sounds that demanded a lot from my vocal cords.
When I faltered, Malek didn't give up. With the patience of someone training a cub, he repeated the words, corrected every slip, and introduced new vocabulary, always linking the sound to the gesture.
"Knum," he said, thumping his own chest. "Mine."
"Knum," I repeated, mimicking the gesture and touching my own chest.
His eyes narrowed for an instant, weighing my pronunciation, before he moved on. We spent the rest of the morning inside the hut. Malek pointed to objects, repeated words, and corrected my mistakes with endless patience. I struggled to keep up, repeating syllable by syllable, even whenmy throat began to burn, and my head throbbed with the buildup of strange sounds.
