Chapter 10 Korgan
KORGAN
The message arrives with the sunrise, carried by a courier who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. Traditional wax seal, formal parchment that crackles when I unfold it. Old-fashioned intimidation tactics wrapped in ceremony.
Korgan of the Dongoran line,
Your conduct dishonors our clan. The human female compromises your standing and ours. Withdraw immediately or face the Rite of Severance.
Elder Throkad, speaking for the Circle
I read it twice, then set it on fire with the hotel room's complimentary matches. The smoke detector starts shrieking immediately.
"Shit."
Twenty minutes later, after explaining to hotel security that I was conducting a "cultural ritual" and promising to pay for a new detector, I sit on the bed and stare at the ashes in the bathroom sink.
The Rite of Severance. Haven't heard that particular threat in fifteen years, not since my cousin Grizelda tried to marry outside the clan and got cut off entirely.
She runs a successful shipping business in Glasgow now, but she's dead to our people.
Her name can't be spoken at clan gatherings.
Her children will never know their orc heritage.
My phone dings. Text message from an unknown number.
Brother. Heard about the message. Don't do anything stupid. - Uktag
Uktag. My war-brother, the only one who still talks to me after the border incident. If he's texting instead of calling, it means the clan's watching his communications too.
I type back: Define stupid.
Choosing a human over your people.
She has a name.
Not to them.
The conversation dies there. Uktag's caught between loyalty and politics, same as always. He'll support me privately but won't risk his own standing publicly. Can't blame him for that. I've made the same calculation plenty of times.
My phone rings. Unknown number again, but the prefix is familiar. Scotland.
"Korgan." My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"You sound like shit, nephew."
Uncle Drogar. Of course. The clan's enforcer, the one they send when gentle persuasion fails.
"Uncle."
"Heard you're making a fool of yourself on human television."
"Heard you're still ugly as a cave troll."
He laughs, a sound like grinding stone. "There's my boy. Listen, this doesn't have to get complicated. Come home, do the ritual cleansing, marry that nice Morghana girl from the Ironhold clan. Everything goes back to normal."
"Morghana has tusks bigger than mine and the personality of wet granite."
"She'd give you strong sons."
"I'd rather adopt a rabid badger."
"Korgan." His voice drops, losing the familial warmth. "They're serious about this. The Circle's already preparing the ritual space. You have three days."
"Or what? You'll disown me? Strip my name from the family stones? Make it so my own mother can't acknowledge me at market?"
"Yes."
The simple honesty hits harder than threats would. Drogar's not cruel, just practical. He's explaining facts, not making promises.
"And if I challenge the rite?"
"Challenge it how? You think you can lawyer your way out of five thousand years of tradition?"
"Maybe."
Silence on the line. Then: "You always were too clever for your own good. Fine. You want to play games with the Circle, that's your funeral. But don't say I didn't warn you."
He hangs up. I gaze at the phone for a long moment, then dial the number I've been avoiding.
"Korgan?" Trinity's voice is sleep-rough, confused. "It's barely seven AM."
"My clan wants me to come home."
"Oh." A pause. Rustling sounds, probably her sitting up in bed. "How bad is it?"
"They're threatening exile if I don't withdraw from the show and break things off with you."
"Ah. The nuclear option."
"Something like that." I lean back against the headboard, suddenly exhausted. "There's a ritual. The Rite of Severance. It would cut me off from the clan permanently. No going back, no reconciliation."
"That's terrifying."
"It's meant to be."
"What are you going to do?"
The question I've been avoiding. "I don't know yet."
"That's honest."
"I'm trying to be more honest these days. About things that matter."
"Am I one of those things?"
"Yes." No hesitation there. Whatever else I'm uncertain about, that much is clear. "You are."
"Then we'll figure it out. Together."
Together. The word still feels foreign, like wearing armor that doesn't quite fit. But it's growing on me.
"I need to make some calls. Research some options."
"Research sounds very tactical and Korgan-like. I approve."
Despite everything, I smile. "I'll see you at the studio later."
"Try not to set anything else on fire before then."
"How did you—never mind. Yes. I'll be careful."
After hanging up, I spend two hours on the phone with my old professor from university, Dr. Kellan, the only orc academic I know who specializes in traditional law. He's not optimistic.
"The Rite of Severance is pretty ironclad, Korgan. It's designed to be final. The only historical precedent for challenging it successfully involved a blood debt that superseded clan authority."
"What about ritual combat? Trial by ordeal?"
"Against the entire Circle? You'd need to defeat seven elder warriors in succession. And they'd pick the battlefield."
"So basically impossible."
"I didn't say impossible. I said inadvisable. There is one other option, though it's... unconventional."
"I'm listening."
"Ritual substitution. If you can prove that your actions serve a greater good for orc-kind, the Circle might accept a ceremonial penance instead of exile."
"What kind of penance?"
"Usually involves public humiliation and a substantial tribute to the clan coffers. But it allows you to maintain your name and standing, technically."
"And the human?"
"That's... more complicated. Tradition doesn't really account for inter-species relationships that aren't conquest-based."
Great. Five thousand years of cultural precedent and nobody thought to cover the "what if the orc actually likes the human" scenario.
I thank Dr. Kellan and hang up, then stare at the ceiling for a while. The hotel room feels smaller suddenly, like the walls are closing in. I need air, space, something that isn't beige carpet and corporate artwork.
The hotel gym is empty at this hour, just me and the early morning maintenance crew. I claim a corner and start working through combat forms, muscle memory taking over while my mind churns.
Ritual substitution. Public penance. It could work, if I can convince the Circle that this whole television spectacle serves some greater purpose.
That showing humans an orc can be civilized, protective, even tender, might advance our people's interests more than hiding in the mountains and glowering at tourists.
It's a long shot, but it's something.
My phone went off. Text message from another unknown number.
Korgan! Darling nephew! Your loving Aunt Grenda has the PERFECT solution to your little problem!
I stop mid-punch. Aunt Grenda only texts in all caps when she's drunk or plotting. Sometimes both.
What solution?
I've arranged a meeting with the most eligible orc bachelorette in all of Scotland! Brunhilde Ironthew, daughter of the Ironthew mining fortune! She's VERY interested in meeting you!
A photo appears. A female orc who looks like she could bench press a pickup truck, wearing what appears to be a wedding dress made of chain mail. She's flexing.
Aunt Grenda, I'm on a dating show. With humans.
EXACTLY THE PROBLEM! Brunhilde is flying to America TODAY! She'll be at the studio this afternoon to sweep you off your feet! Isn't that WONDERFUL?
Another message immediately follows: She's very traditional! Loves long walks through battlefields and quiet evenings sharpening weapons! You'll be PERFECT together!
I peer at the phone. Then I start laughing.
Deep, helpless laughter that echoes off the gym walls and probably disturbs the maintenance crew.
Of course. Of course my family would respond to a potential exile by arranging an ambush marriage with someone who looks like she eats iron filings for breakfast.
The laughter helps, somehow. Puts things in perspective. Whatever ancient rituals and family politics I'm facing, at least I'm not being forced to romance someone who considers armor a formal wear choice.
Another text: She's VERY excited to meet you! I told her all about your strong teeth and excellent posture!
My phone rings. Trinity.
"Did your family just send me a friend request on Instagram from someone named Brunhilde Ironthew?"
"Probably."
"She's... impressive."
"That's one word for it."
"Her bio says she's a competitive axe-thrower and that she's looking for a 'worthy mate to share the glory of battle.'"
"Sounds about right."
"Should I be worried?"
I think about it seriously. Brunhilde is exactly what my family wants: traditional, fierce, unquestionably orcish. She'd give me strong children and never challenge clan authority. She'd fit seamlessly into the life they've planned for me.
She'd also bore me to tears inside a month.
"No," I say. "You shouldn't be worried."
"Good. Because I was about to challenge her to a bake-off for your honor, and I'm pretty sure she'd just eat the mixing bowls."
"Trinity."
"Yeah?"
"Whatever happens with my clan, whatever rituals or politics or arranged marriages they throw at us. I'm not going anywhere."
"You sure about that?"
"Yes." And I am. Standing in this anonymous hotel gym, surrounded by the smell of disinfectant and the distant sound of traffic, I'm more certain than I've been about anything in years. "I'm sure."
"Then we'll handle Brunhilde together too."
"Together."
The word's starting to fit better.