2. Rakk
RAKK
The canyon walls close in tighter than they should as I swing down from my equu, muscles stiff from two days of border patrol. The beast snorts and stamps, sensing my mood the way animals do—raw and sharp-edged like broken glass.
"Take him to the stables." I hand the reins to one of the younger warriors without looking at his face. "Make sure he gets double grain tonight."
"Yes, Rakk."
The title grates. Not my name—the weight behind it. Son of the Chieftain. Future leader. Responsibilities that wrap around my throat like hands squeezing just tight enough to make breathing difficult.
The training grounds sprawl to my right, empty except for a few warriors running drills in the fading light.
Their movements blur together, familiar patterns I could execute in my sleep.
Beyond them, smoke rises from the mess hall where the evening meal is being prepared.
My stomach should respond to that, should remind me I haven't eaten since dawn, but hunger's been a distant thing lately.
I head toward my dwelling instead, boots striking stone in a rhythm that echoes off the canyon walls.
The base is carved into the rock face like a wound, structures built from timber and stone and animal hides that blend with the natural formations until it's hard to tell where nature ends and civilization begins. Home. Supposed to feel like home.
Feels like a cage.
"Rakk!"
The great Chieftain Thorne has spotted me.
Dad's voice booms across the plaza, stopping me mid-stride. Every muscle in my body tenses, shoulders pulling up toward my ears before I force them back down. Not now. Can't do this now.
I turn anyway, because ignoring the Chieftain—even when he's your father—carries consequences.
He strides toward me with that commanding presence that makes warriors straighten their spines and drop their gazes. Obsidian eyes pin me in place, reading everything I'm trying to hide because he's had years of practice seeing through my bullshit.
"You're back early." Not a question. An observation that demands explanation.
"Northern border's quiet. No dark elf movement, no signs of raiding parties." I keep my voice level, professional. Warrior reporting to Chieftain rather than son addressing father. "Posted extra sentries at the narrow pass like you ordered."
"Good." He crosses massive arms over his chest, head tilted slightly in that way that means he's about to say something I won't like. "Walk with me."
It's not a request.
We move toward the western edge of camp where the dwellings cluster against the canyon wall, built for protection and privacy. The silence stretches between us, heavy with things unsaid. I know what's coming. Have known since I saw that look in his eyes.
"Kaelen's taken a mate," Dad starts, and there it is. The conversation I've been avoiding for weeks.
"I noticed."
"Don't be smart with me, boy." The rebuke carries no real heat. "Most warriors your age already have younglings underfoot."
"Most warriors my age aren't being groomed to lead." The words come sharper than I intend, edged with frustration that's been building like pressure behind a dam. "Kind of hard to focus on mating bonds when I'm spending every waking moment learning how to keep this clan alive."
Dad stops walking, turning to face me with an expression that's equal parts exasperation and concern. "A Chieftain needs a mate, Rakk. Someone to stand beside him, to provide counsel when the weight gets too heavy. Your mother—"
"Died giving birth." I cut him off because I can't hear that story again, can't stomach the way his voice goes soft around the edges when he talks about her. "I know. You've told me."
"Then you understand why I push." His hand lands on my shoulder, grip firm enough to ground me. "I don't want you facing this role alone. The burden of leadership, it breaks men who don't have—"
"Someone to share it with." I finish the speech because I've heard variations of it my entire life. "I understand, Dad. I do. But there's no female in this clan who—"
"Then we arrange something with another clan." Dad's tone shifts into negotiation mode, practical and direct. "The Iron Fang has two eligible daughters. Strong bloodlines, good temperaments. I could open discussions—"
"No."
The word comes out harder than stone, final as death. I pull away from his grip, needing space before the pressure in my chest cracks something important.
"Rakk—"
"I'm not mating some stranger because it's politically convenient.
" Heat builds under my skin, that familiar sensation that means I need to get away from this conversation before something worse than words slips free.
"When I take a mate, it'll be because I choose her.
Not because you arranged it like a trade agreement. "
Dad's jaw works, tusks catching the dying light. For a moment I think he'll push harder, force the issue with that iron will that bent an entire clan to his leadership. But something in my expression must convince him to retreat because he nods once, sharp and short.
"We'll discuss this again after the winter preparations are complete." Not a question. A statement of fact. "But this conversation isn't over, Rakk. You need to start thinking about your future."
He walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing alone as darkness creeps across the canyon floor.
My dwelling waits in blessed silence, door shut tight against the world outside.
I shoulder it open and step into the single room that serves as my entire living space.
Small. Simple. Mine. A sleeping platform covered in furs dominates one wall, a low table and cushions occupy the center, and a weapons rack holds my personal arsenal near the door.
No decorations, no personal touches beyond what's functional.
Exactly how I want it.
I strip off my armor piece by piece, leather and bone clattering onto the table with more force than necessary.
The motion pulls at muscles that have been tensed for hours, and I roll my shoulders trying to work out the knots.
My body aches in that good way that comes from physical exertion, but it's not enough to quiet the restlessness crawling under my skin.
The magic stirs in response to my mood, humming beneath flesh and bone like a second heartbeat. I press my palm flat against the table and breathe through it, focusing on the cool sensation of wood grain instead of the warmth building in my core.
Not now. Control it.
The power settles grudgingly, sinking back into whatever depths it lives in when I'm not actively wrestling with it.
Most days I can ignore it, can pretend it's just another part of me like brown eyes or broad shoulders.
Other days—days like this when emotions run hot and control feels slippery—it pushes against the boundaries I've built, testing for weaknesses.
The clan can never know. Only few do—Kaelen, Dad, Zurkar.
Chieftains are warriors first, leaders second. They don't carry the magic touch that marks shamans and healers. Having both would make me something else, something other, and orcs don't trust what they can't categorize.
A knock interrupts my spiral into darker thoughts.
"It's open," I call, already knowing who it is by the pattern. Three quick raps, pause, two more. Kaelen's knock.
The door swings inward and my best friend fills the frame, ducking slightly to clear the threshold even though he doesn't need to.
Old habit from the growth spurt that hit him at fourteen and never really stopped.
He's cleaned up since this morning's training session—hair freshly braided, wearing a tunic that actually looks washed instead of the practice leathers he practically lives in.
Lola's influence, probably.
"You look like shit," he observes, shutting the door behind him with one massive hand.
"Rough patrol."
"Liar." Kaelen crosses to the table and drops onto a cushion with the kind of casual comfort that comes from years of friendship. "Thorne got to you about the mating thing again."
Not a question. He knows. Has probably been fielding similar conversations since he and Lola completed their ceremony.
"Wants me to meet some Iron Fang females." I slump onto the cushion across from him, suddenly exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with lack of sleep. "Start building political alliances through strategic pairings."
"That's Chieftain talk for 'arranged marriage.'"
"Exactly."
Kaelen studies me with those amber eyes that miss nothing, reading all the things I'm not saying in the set of my shoulders and the tension in my jaw.
We've known each other since we were younglings barely tall enough to hold training weapons.
He probably understands me better than I understand myself.
"You could just tell him no."
"I did tell him no." The words come out rougher than intended. "He's giving me until after winter preparations to 'think about my future.'"
"Translation: he's giving you until after winter to change your mind or he'll change it for you."
"Basically."
Silence settles between us, comfortable in the way it can only be with someone who's seen you at your worst and stuck around anyway. Kaelen leans back against the wall, long legs stretched out in front of him, looking more relaxed than I've seen him in months.
Mating agrees with him. The constant tension that used to live in his shoulders has eased, and there's a contentment in his expression that wasn't there before Lola. Not that I begrudge him the happiness. I'd have to be a pretty shit friend to resent someone for finding something good.
Doesn't stop the hollow feeling that opens up in my chest when I look at what he has and compare it to what I don't.
"Lola's making that stew tonight," Kaelen says, apropos of nothing. "The one with the dripir and somana that you like. You should come over, eat something that isn't dried meat and disappointment."
Despite everything, my mouth quirks. "Dried meat and disappointment. That's poetic."