Chapter 8 Korgan
KORGAN
The oath burns in me like swallowed coals.
By blood and bone, I swear never to let a human weaponize my heart again.
I agreed to this show as a soldier accepts a mission: establish a presence, secure the objective (public favor), and extract without casualties. It was supposed to be a performance.
But the way I kissed her in the garden wasn't a performance. The rage I felt when they attacked her bakery wasn't tactical. I am failing the oath not because I am here, but because I am forgetting that this is a battlefield, and she is supposed to be the mission, not the prize.
My younger brother's face flashes behind my eyelids. Drakar, barely past his naming ceremony, caught between human artillery and orc pride. I'd chosen to evacuate the human children first, and by the time I circled back for wounded orcs, scavengers had found him.
The oath I swore over his body binds me still. No human attachment until the blood debt settles. No divided loyalties. No softness that could cost another orc life.
Trinity stirs against me, her breath warm on my neck. I tighten my arm around her waist, pulling her closer, the scent of cinnamon and sleep filling my senses. For a moment, there is no war, no show, no politics. Just this.
Then I wake up.
My hand closes over empty, cold sheets. The silence of the room presses down on me, heavy and accusing. She isn't here. She can't be here.
I want to explain, to tell her about Drakar and the oath and the impossible position she puts me in just by existing. But she isn't here to listen.
The gym equipment groans under my fury. Every rep carries the contradiction, Trinity's laugh versus Drakar's silence. Her trust versus my sworn word. The future I want versus the past I can't escape.
"Rough night?" A production assistant hovers nearby with his tablet and nervous energy.
"Fine."
"Because the footage from last night was incredible. Really beautiful stuff. The network wants to fast-track some relationship development segments."
I set down the weights with deliberate control. "What segments?"
"Meeting family, sharing backgrounds, maybe some physical intimacy scenes. You know, normal couple progression."
Normal couple progression. As if anything about this situation approaches normal.
"I need to review contracts first."
"Oh, it's all covered in the standard romance clauses. Trinity already signed off on expanded coverage."
Trinity signed off.
Which means she expects this to continue. Expects me to meet her family, share my history, build something real while cameras document every moment. While I'm bound by oath to avoid exactly that.
"I'll consider it."
But I won't. Can't.
For the next three days, I master the art of tactical distance. Polite conversation during group challenges. Minimal eye contact during confessionals. Strategic partnering with other contestants for team events.
Trinity notices immediately.
"Did I do something wrong?" she asks after I deflect her third attempt at private conversation.
"No."
"Then why are you avoiding me?"
"Not avoiding. Maintaining appropriate boundaries."
Her laugh carries an edge. "Appropriate boundaries? We were making out three days ago."
"Mistake."
The word hits her like a painful blow. I watch her face cycle through hurt, anger, and finally cold determination.
"Right. Mistake. Got it."
She walks away before I can clarify, and I let her go because explaining would make everything worse.
The producers notice the tension and circle like vultures.
"Trouble in paradise?" Jonathan cornered me after the Thursday challenge. "Because the audience is eating up this will-they-won't-they dynamic."
"No dynamic. Professional distance."
"Professional distance doesn't test well with focus groups. They want passion, drama, emotional investment."
"Then find it elsewhere."
His smile turns predatory. "We might have to manufacture some investment. For the good of the show."
Something cold settles in my stomach. "Meaning?"
"Meaning ratings need a boost, and Trinity's little bakery story has great dramatic potential. Small business owner risks everything for love? Very compelling. Especially if that risk has real consequences."
"What consequences?"
"Oh, you know. Public perception, brand reputation, financial stability. Amazing how quickly a small business can struggle when the wrong story gets out."
The threat crystallizes with perfect clarity. Threaten Trinity's livelihood to force my emotional compliance.
"You wouldn't."
"We wouldn't need to if you'd cooperate with the planned relationship arc. But if you keep pulling away..." He shrugs. "Well, love stories need obstacles."
That night, I break into the production office.
Security assumes I'm too straightforward for subterfuge, too honest for deception. They're wrong. War teaches infiltration along with combat, and I spent years moving through enemy territory.
The office computers require passwords I don't have, but the filing cabinets use simple locks. Twenty minutes of careful searching reveals what I suspected—a manufactured scandal ready for deployment.
Trinity's financial records, somehow obtained despite privacy laws. Photos of her meeting with various men, taken out of context to suggest romantic entanglements. A fake testimonial from a supposed ex-boyfriend claiming she only dates for money.
All prepared, all ready to leak if I don't perform sufficiently for cameras.
But buried deeper, I find something unexpected. A memo from a consulting firm hired to "ensure maximum dramatic impact through targeted personal revelations." The consultant's name makes my blood freeze.
Darren Strange. The human journalist who interviewed me after Drakar's death, who promised to tell our story fairly, then published an article painting me as a bloodthirsty savage who sacrificed his own brother for human approval.
The betrayal that broke my remaining political connections. The reason my father disowned me. The source of the exile that drove me to this show.
Darren Strange works for the production company now.
He's been feeding them information about my past, my family, my oaths. He knows exactly why I'm pulling away from Trinity, and he's using both our vulnerabilities to craft his drama.
I photograph the evidence with shaking hands, then replace everything exactly as I found it. The files will disappear tomorrow once they realize I've seen them, but I have enough proof to act.
The question is how to protect Trinity without breaking my oath or destroying her dreams of saving her bakery.
I find her in the kitchen at dawn, stress-baking again. Flour dusts her clothes and exhaustion rings her eyes. She's been working through her confusion about my distance, channeling frustration into productivity.
"Trinity."
She doesn't look up from her mixing. "If you're here to maintain more professional boundaries, you can leave."
"I'm here to warn you."
That gets her attention. "About what?"
"The producers are planning to attack your bakery's reputation. Manufactured scandal designed to force emotional responses from both of us."
Her mixing slows. "What kind of scandal?"
"Financial impropriety. Romantic manipulation. Lies designed to make you look opportunistic and desperate."
"But none of that's true."
"Truth is irrelevant to them. Drama sells."
She sets down her whisk and finally meets my eyes. "How do you know this?"
"I investigated. Found files, photographs, prepared statements. They're waiting for the right moment to deploy everything."
"Why are you telling me?"
The question cuts deep because she deserves the full truth. About Strange, about the oath, about why I've been pulling away despite wanting her more than my next breath.
"Because you deserve to protect yourself. And because..." I force the words past the oath's resistance. "Because I care about you more than is wise."
"More than is wise." Her laugh carries bitter edges. "That's romantic."
"It's honest."
"Honest would be explaining why you've been treating me like a stranger for three days."
The oath tightens around my throat like a noose. "I cannot."
"Cannot or will not?"
"Both."
She stares at me for a long moment, then nods with terrible understanding. "There's someone else."
"No."
"A commitment you can't break."
Closer to truth, but still wrong in the way that matters. "Yes."
"And you can't tell me what it is."
"No."
"But you came here to warn me anyway."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you matter more than my comfort. Your safety, your dreams, your bakery. They matter."
Tears gather in her eyes. "But not enough to choose me."
The words destroy something fundamental within me. "Trinity—"
"Don't." She wipes her eyes with floury hands, leaving white streaks on her cheeks. "Just don't. You've made your position clear."
She turns back to her mixing, dismissing me with brutal efficiency. I want to stay, to find words that explain without breaking oaths or revealing vulnerabilities that could be weaponized against both of us.
Instead, I leave her to her baking and begin planning how to destroy Darren Strange without destroying myself in the process.
The oath burns, but Trinity's tears burn hotter.
Something has to give.
The rain falls in sheets, turning the carefully arranged set into a muddy disaster. The producers wanted "romantic atmosphere" for this challenge, but nature has other plans. The wind howls through the fake pavilion's supports, making the structure groan like it might collapse at any moment.
Trinity stands under the pavilion's partial shelter, arms wrapped around herself. Her thin dress clings to her body, soaked through. When lightning flashes, I see her shiver.
"Come here." My voice carries over the storm.
She hesitates, then steps closer. I pull her against my chest, wrapping my arms around her. The heat of her body seeps through our wet clothes.
"Better?" I ask into her hair.