A Touch of Magic (Orcs of Oksha #1)

Prologue

“This was a terrible idea,” Kristan said, tugging on my hand.

I wrenched my arm free from her surprisingly strong grip and fixed my gaze on the corridor ahead. This wing of the castle had almost no movement; only guards and members of the royal family were allowed there, with one exception—me.

That was precisely why I intended to reach the dungeon where the cells were, driven by a strange pull I couldn't explain but felt impossible to ignore.

“Fiona, please, let’s go back,” Kristan insisted, glancing around as though a guard might spring from the shadows and haul us off by the collars at any moment. “If your father finds out you came here—”

“He won’t,” I cut in, lifting my chin with all the arrogance a ten-year-old princess could muster. “Besides, I need to see.”

For days, a restless unease had been growing inside me, a nagging pull that kept drawing my thoughts back to that place.

Leone had told me that during the last raid on Oksha, the most feared orc clan in all of Lyraen, several orcs had been captured and brought to Ceilte.

I had never seen one in the flesh, and part of me was simply curious to know if they were as terrifying as the paintings made them seem.

But the other part...

My hand drifted to my chest, where my heart beat fast from the adrenaline. Something was pulling me to the cells, like an invisible thread binding me to something waiting there. I didn’t understand the feeling. It made no sense at all—and yet it grew stronger every day.

I scanned our surroundings twice, making sure no guard had spotted us. The watch would change in about five minutes. Then I’d slip through the hidden hatch behind the painting of Kraven the Magnanimous.

“This is madness,” Kristan muttered, but quickened her pace to keep up. She always did that—complained, but followed anyway.

My friend stuck close to me, jittery like a deer ready to bolt. I couldn’t blame her; if my father discovered we were here, she’d bear the brunt of the scolding. Still, even with the threat of punishment, Kristan didn’t leave.

Kraven’s portrait loomed on the wall of the side corridor.

He held a gold-bathed sword raised high, his stern gaze fixed on the fallen orc at his feet.

The orc—a lesser fae, green-skinned and broad in stature—looked small before my ancestor.

The creature stared up with a mix of fear and anger, clawed hands lifted to shield his face while sharp, yellowed fangs glinted in the daylight.

The first time I saw that painting, it gave me nightmares.

Now, it didn’t stir the same feeling. To be honest, I thought the way everyone worshipped and revered Kraven was excessive.

I had always been far more fascinated by the story of Evanderis, the Warrior Queen who sailed with her fleet, conquered the Summer Court, and claimed it as her own.

History books said she fought for her people, seized what had been denied her, tore down kingdoms and built an empire with her own hands, and slew the tyrant king, Máel, son of the legendary Queen Mab.

Whenever my nurse told that story, I imagined Evanderis’ strength and everything she achieved, even though she was only a female.

One day, I wanted to be a queen like her.

At last, the night guard exited the dungeon and strode down the corridor to relieve the other.

I took the opportunity, darting to the painting and pressing my fingers to the hidden knob on Kraven’s belt.

A click shattered the grave-like silence and made Kristan whimper in fear as her eyes darted around the dark corridor.

I shot her a glare, silently ordering her to be quiet.

The hidden mechanism shifted, and the painting slid a few inches aside, revealing the stone hatch.

“Fiona…” Kristan whispered, her voice wavering as her eyes filled with tears. “Let’s go back. There’s still time. If someone catches us—”

“No one will catch me.” I grabbed her wrist and pulled her along. Though she shook like a leaf in the wind, she didn’t pull away. “And if they do, I’ll take the blame.”

“That doesn’t comfort me,” she muttered.

“It wasn’t meant to.”

I crouched and shoved the hatch open with both hands. It creaked softly, like something waking from a very deep sleep. The narrow passage yawned before us—dark, damp, and reeking of old, forgotten things. The air that breathed out was cold, smelling heavily of mildew.

Kristan swallowed hard.

“I hate this part…”

I rolled my eyes.

“You’re such a scaredy-cat.”

Bracing against the cold stone, I slipped inside first. The passage was so tight that my shoulders nearly brushed against both walls. The light behind us faded, swallowed by the oppressive dark.

Behind me, Kristan hesitated for three heartbeats. It only took one look from me for her to follow. Then, the hatch closed behind us with a dull, muffled thud.

That was when I felt it. A pulse deep within the darkness, threading through the stone and echoing in the frozen air. A slow, steady thrum that mimicked my own heartbeat.

My hand flew instinctively to my chest, where the invisible thread pulling me pulsed so fiercely it hurt.

We moved until the tunnel grew less dark, faint torchlight licking weakly across the walls. I groped along the stone, searching for the opening that led to the cells. When I found it, an excited squeak escaped me.

“Stay here,” I told Kristan, knowing she’d have nightmares if she followed any farther.

She hesitated, then nodded. Without looking back, I squeezed into the hole.

The stone scraped my knees as I crawled through the tight space, but I hardly felt it.

The air there was different. Fouler. The thread in my chest vibrated like it was about to snap, and each slow, echoing beat through the mortar seemed to answer my own heart.

I emerged on the other side, hands first, bracing against the cold floor. When I lifted my head, I met a pair of dark eyes watching me from the gloom and froze.

They were large and bright, like a cat sìth’s eyes.

A deep, earthy brown that reminded me of the river mud along the banks of the Idril River.

They watched me with the focus of a hunter studying its prey.

My heart slammed so violently it felt ready to burst through my ribs.

The thread inside me pulled with such strength I nearly lost my balance.

It tugged at me, dragging me straight to the small male.

He was an orc who looked only a little older than I was, with short hair black as the night sky. Two small fangs peeked from his upper lip, and a thin line of dark green dried blood trailed from his straight nose.

He sat propped against the wall, chains fastened to his arms and legs, holding him captive. Seeing him like that tightened something in my chest and filled me with a sudden surge of displeasure.

“Hi,” I whispered, wincing when my voice came out louder than I intended. The orc’s ears twitched faintly, but he remained statue-still. “I’m Fionnuala, but you can call me Fiona.”

There was no answer, not even a twitch. He was as immobile as the prison stones. Heat flooded my face with embarrassment at being ignored like that—not something I was used to. His pointed ears, slightly longer than mine, flicked again, almost imperceptibly, just enough to tell me he could hear me.

“I… um…” I began, unsure how to even talk to an orc. I didn’t know if he could understand our language. In my studies, we learned that the orc clans all had their own dialects, very different from the Fae common tongue. “I’ve never seen one before. An orc, I mean. Like you.”

He remained motionless, though his eyes never left me. They were so intense that every hair on my body prickled, yet my feet stayed rooted to the floor.

“I know you don’t like us,” I ventured, biting my lip. “But… I didn’t come to hurt you, I swear.”

He finally blinked once, slowly. The thread inside me throbbed so sharply it hurt. I pressed my hand to my chest in a futile attempt to ease the feeling. His gaze followed the movement, and I quickly dropped my hand.

“Do you have a name?” I asked, taking an involuntary step closer.

The chain at his wrists rattled with a small shift that made my breath catch. Then he inhaled, his nose lifting slightly as his nostrils flared. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough.

“Krash’uk.”

Krash’uk.

The name carried a different rhythm, rougher than the names of the fae in Ceilte.

“What does it mean?”

His brown eyes narrowed slightly. He answered in words I didn’t understand. They meant nothing to me, which meant he didn’t speak the Common tongue of Tir na Sí—or he simply refused to speak it to me.

The realization stung.

Now that I was there, I wanted to know more about this orc my father had locked away. I wanted to ask whether the stories his people told him were the same ones they told me, or whether, in his world, we were the villains.

Before I could continue my one-sided conversation, I heard the sharp click of a lock opening.

Suddenly, Kristan’s voice rang out behind me:

“Fiona, we have to go! The guard’s here!”

My heart leaped at my friend’s voice. I turned to leave, but then I remembered the orc, and my steps faltered.

On an impulse my child’s mind couldn’t explain, I took off the ring my father had given me for my fifth birthday. It was an enchanted ring, able to change into whatever its bearer needed the most. I usually used it to help with my pranks.

I ran to Krash’uk and, not thinking clearly, tossed the ring to him. The small golden circle rolled until it reached the orc’s bare feet. Footsteps came fast in our direction. I couldn’t linger.

“Use it wisely,” I told him, winking.

I didn’t know much about orcs. I didn’t even know if they truly were our enemies. But in that moment, none of that mattered. All I wanted, deep in my heart, was for Krash’uk to get away.