Chapter 7 Blorjorn
SEVEN
BLORJORN
Iwake to the ache of the oath-mark.
It throbs against my forearm—a low, persistent reminder of what I did last night. I lie still in the pre-dawn darkness, staring at the narrow strip of sky visible between the ravine walls, and I think about the human woman sleeping thirty feet away.
Bound to me now. Her blood masked beneath mine. Her fate tangled with my own until we both choose to sever it.
This was necessary. I tell myself that. Keep telling myself. The alternative was watching her die, and I couldn’t—
I couldn’t.
The oath was supposed to be practical. A tool. A way to hide her from the blood-magic trackers. Nothing more.
So why does the mark on my arm feel like a brand? Why does knowing she’s nearby—alive, breathing, carrying a piece of my blood in her veins—make something in my chest tighten?
I push myself upright, muscles protesting. The mark throbs again, and I press my thumb against it, feeling the raised edges of the scar. My blood. Her blood. Mingled and burned into both our skins.
The camp is already stirring. I hear Grothak’s voice—stronger now, giving orders to the younger warriors. Vekra’s measured footsteps on patrol. The clatter of supplies being packed, horses being saddled, the organized chaos of a war band preparing to move.
I force myself to join them.
She’s standing by the horse line when I find her.
Her back is to me, spine rigid, shoulders tight. She’s adjusting the straps on a saddle with jerky, angry movements. The bandage on her forearm is visible beneath her pushed-up sleeve—fresh white cloth over the oath-mark we now share.
She doesn’t turn when I approach, though she must hear my footsteps. The tension in her body tells me she knows I’m there.
“You need to eat.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “We’re moving in an hour. It’ll be a hard ride.”
“I’m fine.”
“You haven’t eaten since yesterday morning.”
She spins to face me. Those hazel eyes blaze with fury—the same fury that’s been simmering since she agreed to the oath. Since I marked her as mine.
Not mine. I correct myself. Protected by me. There’s a difference.
“I said I’m fine.” Her chin lifts. Defiant despite the dark circles under her eyes, the pallor of her skin. “I don’t need you monitoring whether I’ve eaten.”
“I’m not monitoring. I’m observing.” I keep my voice level. “You’re pale. Your hands shook when you adjusted that buckle. Basic assessment, not surveillance.”
“The oath doesn’t give you the right to—”
“The oath doesn’t give me any rights.” I cut her off, sharper than intended. “I’ve been watching soldiers for a hundred years, Kielyne. I don’t need magic to see when someone’s running on empty.”
She stares at me. The fury in her expression shifts—still angry, but something else underneath now. Surprise, maybe. Or the beginning of something that isn’t quite hostility.
“I didn’t sleep well.” The admission comes out grudgingly. “Kept waking up. The mark...” She touches her bandaged forearm. “It aches.”
“It will for a day or two. Then it fades to nothing.” I hesitate. “Mine aches too.”
She looks at me—really looks, for the first time since the ritual. Something passes between us. Not understanding, exactly. But acknowledgment. We’re both carrying the same mark now. The same binding. Whatever discomfort she’s feeling, I’m feeling it too.
“Eat something,” I say quietly. “Please.”
The please surprises her. I see it in the slight widening of her eyes, the way her mouth opens and closes without words.
“Fine.” She turns back to the horse. “But only because I’m actually hungry. Not because you told me to.”
I almost smile. Almost.
“Of course not.”
The day passes in wary silence.
We ride north, following goat trails and dried streambeds, staying off the main roads where Hadrin’s patrols might spot us.
The human woman rides near the middle of the column, surrounded by other warriors.
Fenrik has attached himself to her side like an eager puppy, peppering her with questions she answers in clipped, exhausted syllables.
I keep my distance. Give her space to adjust. To hate me, if that’s what she needs.
But I can’t help watching. Can’t help noticing the way she sits her horse—competent but uncomfortable, a rider by necessity rather than training. The way she scans the horizon constantly, always looking for threats. The way her hand drifts to the mark on her arm when she thinks no one’s looking.
My own mark throbs in response. Coincidence. Has to be.
We make camp as dusk falls, in a shallow depression hidden from casual observation. No fires tonight—smoke would give away our position. Cold rations and colder bedrolls, the tension of pursuit hanging over everything.
I take first watch. It gives me something to do besides lie awake thinking about the woman I’ve bound my fate to.
The night deepens. Stars wheel overhead, cold and distant. The camp settles into the restless quiet of exhausted soldiers trying to sleep with danger on every horizon.
And then I hear her scream.
I’m moving before I consciously decide to.
The sound cuts through the night—raw, terrified, the kind of scream that comes from nightmares rather than waking threats. I find her thrashing in her bedroll, hands clawing at nothing, face twisted in terror.
“Kielyne.” I crouch beside her, careful not to touch. “Kielyne, wake up.”
She gasps awake. Her body jackknifes upright, and for a moment her eyes are wild—unfocused, still trapped in whatever horror her mind conjured. Sweat plasters her hair to her forehead. Her chest heaves.
She sees me looming over her and flinches back.
Leave. I should leave. She doesn’t want me here.
But the terror in her eyes is fading into something worse. Shame. Embarrassment. The look of someone who hates being seen in a moment of weakness.
“Breathe.” My voice comes out low. Rough. “You’re safe. It was a dream.”
“I know it was a dream.” She draws her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. Making herself smaller. “I’m fine.”
She’s not fine. But I don’t say that.
“The screaming will bring questions.” I settle back on my heels, giving her space. “If you want to talk about it—”
“I don’t.”
“Then I’ll go.”
I start to rise. Her hand shoots out, catches my wrist. The contact is brief—she releases me almost immediately, like she burned herself—but I feel the tremor in her fingers.
“Wait.” The word comes out strangled. “Just... wait.”
I wait.
She stares at her hands, clasped tight around her knees. Her breathing slowly steadies. When she speaks, her voice is barely audible.
“Millbrook. My village.” A pause. “I was twelve when the orcs came. My mother hid me in a root cellar. Told me to stay quiet, no matter what I heard.” Her throat works. “I heard everything. And then I heard nothing. And when I came out...”
She doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.
I should say something. Offer comfort. But what comfort can I give?
“The Orc Incursions,” I say quietly. “Fifteen years ago.”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t there.” I don’t know why I say it. Don’t know why it matters. “I was in the north. Different campaign.”
She looks at me. In the starlight, her eyes are dark pools. “Would it matter if you were?”
The question hangs between us. Would it?
If I’d been one of the orcs who burned her village, killed her mother, sent a twelve-year-old girl fleeing into a world that would spend the next fifteen years trying to break her—would she still have saved Grothak?
Would she still be here, bound to me by blood and desperation?
“I don’t know,” I admit.
She nods. Like that’s the only honest answer. Like she appreciates that I didn’t try to make it easier.
“Go back to your watch.” Her voice steadies. “I’m fine now.”
I rise. Force myself to walk away. But at the edge of the firelight, I pause.
“For what it’s worth,” I say without turning, “I’m sorry. For Millbrook. For all of it.”
She doesn’t respond. But I feel her gaze on my back as I return to my post. Something complicated in it. Something that isn’t quite hatred anymore.
Neither of us acknowledges what just happened. What it means that I came to her in the dark. What it means that she asked me to stay.
The war horn rips through the pre-dawn quiet.