Chapter 17 #2
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.
"This is good..."
I continued the massage, secretly adoring the sight of him so at ease. "Who usually does your braids?"
"I do them myself," he answered, his voice a slow, heavy drawl.
My eyes widened in surprise. I would have sworn he had a line of females willing to help him.
"Why don’t you ask for help?"
He opened his eyes again, something intense flickering across his face. "Only mates or parents do that."
My fingers froze in the middle of a braid. The silence in the hut suddenly became deafening, broken only by the crackling of the wood and the rhythmic sound of the water lapping against the tub.
I stared at him, processing the gravity of what I had just heard. What to me had been a practical task, a price to pay for information, was to him an intimate act.
"I-I didn't know," I whispered. My blood rushed up my neck, setting my cheeks on fire.
"Now you do," he replied, his voice grave with a seriousness that made me want to pull away and, at the same time, lean closer.
I should have stepped away and apologized, but his gaze held me, a silent challenge. He watched, waiting to see if I would flee now that I understood the meaning of the gesture.
With a sigh, I forced my fingers back to work. If the Ruk’hai expected me to retreat, he would be disappointed.
"Then you should have stopped me," I countered, trying to keep my voice steady even as my stomach tightened.
"I should have," he agreed. A dangerous glint flashed in his eyes as he tilted his head back, bringing his face so close to mine I could see his long eyelashes. "But I wanted to see if you dared to finish what you started."
I took a lock of his damp hair, softened by the oil, and resumed the braid. My fingers trembled at first, but steadied as the rhythm took hold. When I reached the last strand, Malek’s gaze burned into me, but I ignored it—ignored him.
I finished the knot with steady hands that masked my nervousness, letting my hands rest for a second longer on his broad shoulders.
"There," I whispered, my voice sounding strange to my own ears after so long in silence.
He rose from the tub, water streaming down his muscular body, leaving him completely exposed. I turned my face away after a few seconds of staring—I wasn’t made of stone, after all.
He went to the hearth to dry himself.
"The cage," I said, before I could lose my nerve and run far away from the temptation that was this orc. "Where is it?"
Malek watched me, his dark eyes reading my determination. He dressed in a clean loincloth that left very little to the imagination, and gestured to me. The tension from moments ago was entirely forgotten, or perhaps just buried under the weight of what was to come.
"Let's go."
? ? ?
Malek led me to a corner of the village I had never been to before.
The area was secluded, tucked away behind a dense thicket of dark-leaved trees.
Here, the air grew damp and cold, the sunlight barely managing to pierce through the heavy canopy above.
Nestled among the trees stood a hut much like the others, yet what caught my eye were the white runes scattered across its surface.
Even though I was learning Okshakai, the orcish runes remained a mystery to me—as inscrutable as the tattoos etched into Malek’s own skin.
"What do they mean?" I asked, my fingers brushing one of the symbols etched into the hut’s weathered wall.
The Ruk’hai drew near, his towering presence at my side making me feel petite.
"Protection," he answered simply. "It’s the safest place we have."
He pressed his hand against the wall near mine and murmured a few low words in Okshakai. The magic stirred in response, and a shimmering opening appeared within the stone, catching me off guard. Malek stepped inside first, then paused, waiting for me to follow.
I stood frozen for a heartbeat, my mind reeling as I processed what I’d just seen. Malek had used magic. As far as I knew, such a gift was nonexistent among orcs. When I finally found the nerve to move, he led me toward the back of the cabin, where the cage sat waiting.
The iron structure was even more massive than I had imagined, a hulking weight of thick, interlaced bars. The Fae magic woven into its frame pulsed with a faint, dull gold glow.
My eyes traced the runes covering every inch of the iron, and a chill swept through me as the spell came into focus. It was containment magic—the kind used to shackle something dangerous. It wasn't merely a cage; it was a trap forged with the singular intent of smothering any hope of escape.
I drew nearer, pulled in by the siren call of the spell, until a heavy hand caught me, halting my advance.
"We don't know what it does," Malek said, his cold, calculating gaze fixed on the cage.
I knew exactly what I was looking at, and the grim purpose it served.
It was a prison of light, one of the oldest and most dangerous inventions of the Autumn Court.
It worked by snaring the essence of whoever was trapped within, slowly siphoning their power to fuel its own containment magic in a near-parasitic cycle.
It was the kind of dark sorcery the Autumn Court reserved only for the vilest criminals.
A cold sense of dread settled in my gut as the questions began to gnaw at me. Why were Grìosach’s soldiers transporting such a prison toward Ceilte? What in the gods' names was happening there?
I buried the questions for a more opportune moment and turned my gaze back to the orc.
"Why do you think they were bringing this to Ceilte?"
Malek ran a hand along his squared jaw, his eyes never leaving the cage. "I don't know," he answered. "It’s been a long time since we’ve had any conflict with the kir’shakur." I furrowed my brow, the term unfamiliar. As if reading my thoughts, he clarified. "Invaders."
"Oh..."
The sound of my own breathing echoed through the cabin, loud in the sudden stillness. Words failed me; all I could do was swallow the hard knot in my throat, feigning a mask of neutrality while a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts took over my mind.
I was High Fae, raised to view orcs as the lowest form of existence.
But every story has two sides, and from everything I had witnessed so far, theirs was the side that had bled the most for these wars.
While Ceilte and the Courts grew wealthier with each passing year, the orc clans were merely trying to survive with dignity on the scraps they had left.
The memory of Merith’s curse surged up, bitter and cold.
I remembered how the fae who had known me since childhood had simply turned their backs on me.
They had witnessed what happened, yet their hatred had spoken louder than any memory or affection they once held for me. All because my appearance had changed.
In retrospect, between them and us, it was the High Fae who were the barbarians. We were the ones who had invaded their lands on a whim; my ancestors had decimated orc clans for the sake of territory we didn't even use.
It was a sickening realization, one that made bile rise in the back of my throat. The weight of it only grew heavier as I remembered that I was lying to them just to save my own skin, while the orcs had done nothing but help me.
I couldn't erase the atrocities my people had inflicted upon the Okshai and the other orc clans scattered across Lyraen. Those were scars that would remain etched forever in memory and in time. The least I could do now was try to help them in whatever way I could.
Starting with this cursed cage.
"I think I know a way to open it," I said, careful not to offer more than was necessary.
"How?"
"Do you trust me, Ruk’hai?"
I felt his gaze, piercing and laden with questions I couldn't possibly answer. The silence stretched between us, lingering long past the point of comfort. To my immense relief, he didn't try to press me.
"What do you need?"