Leaving his shoulders, I slid my lathered hands forward, tracing his throat until my palms settled against the heat of his chest. His pulse hammered, a frantic echo of my own.
He remained motionless, eyes closed, granting me the courage to trace the planes of his body and study the markings I had never seen up close. They were intricate tribal patterns that snaked over his shoulder and spiraled down his shoulder blade. I felt the faint ridge of ink beneath his skin, a striking contrast to the hard muscle shifting under my touch.
"What do the tattoos mean?" I asked.
He didn't open his eyes. "The song of life," he answered, his voice a low rasp. "Sha’mek hirokan. Every time an orc reaches an important milestone in his life, there’s a tattoo to celebrate it."
That was a beautiful concept. I traced the line of one tattoo in particular, long and sinuous, where it arched across his shoulder.
"And this one?" I murmured, pressing my fingertip against the ink. "What is it?"
Malek opened his eyes and turned his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the searing intensity in his gaze.
"That’s my first victory. Karurhk menekor. The day I ceased to be ashkem and became Rharh."
Warrior.
The word carried no pride, only a quiet certainty, something etched not just into his skin, but into his very marrow.
It was beautiful, far more intricate than it had seemed from a distance. In the flickering firelight, the lines almost pulsed with a life of their own. Without thinking, I let my fingers drift toward the tattoo on the right side of his neck.
“And this one?”
Malek’s body stiffened instantly. He didn’t pull away, but the reaction was a silent warning to tread carefully.
"N’day shuruk."
First kill.
I withdrew my fingers slowly, feeling like I had touched something sacred.
"How old were you?" I wondered quietly.
"Nine springs."
A lump formed in my throat. I wanted to press him, to ask who it had been and why, but I held my tongue. My chest ached at the realization that he had likely killed one of my own, and certainly not a child, since only adults fought in Ceilte’s armies.
I went back to washing his back, my movements softer now, afraid to hurt his warrior who had been through so much already. Something in me shifted. It was no longer just physical,but the awareness that I was touching someone shaped by choices made too soon, by blood spilled before he ever truly had an option.
To think that, at nine years old, I was running through the castle corridors, playing with Leone, Kristan, and the other children, protected from the violent world beyond the marble walls. While I enjoyed carefree afternoons, Malek was learning how to survive.
The comparison left a bitter taste in my mouth, but it effectively extinguished the heat in my core.
In Ceilte, we were taught from an early age that orcs were barbaric and cruel, creatures guided only by violence. However, in the short time I had spent observing their lives here, those beliefs had begun to unravel. They weren’t bloodthirsty monsters. They were simply fae trying to live the best way they could, despite the hardships—and the wounds—that my own people insisted on causing.
It was a hard pill to swallow. Everything I learned in Ceilte sounded shallow, far too convenient to justify centuries of blood spilled for stupid reasons.
When I finished washing his back and chest, my hands were trembling, but the tension in his shoulders had eased. I stepped back, wiping the sap from my hands.
“There. Done.”
Now it was time to redo his braids. Malek tilted his head, exposing the nape of his neck to me. My hands, still damp from the bathwater, reached for the thick, dark strands. I began undoing the old braids, my fingers working carefully to loosen the tight knots.
As the hair came loose, it fell in heavy waves over his shoulders, revealing the length he normally kept tamed. Just as I had done with his body, I used the ingyl leaves to wash the strands until they were fragrant and clean. Then, I dipped my fingers into the small jar of oil. The scent of sandalwood and something citrusy intensified as I spread the liquid between my palms.
"Lean forward," I murmured.
He obeyed, closing his eyes once more. I began to apply the oil, digging my fingers into his scalp and massaging in circular motions that made him release a low sigh, almost a purr vibrating deep in his chest. The oil made his hair shimmer, turning it as soft as black silk.
