Chapter 25 #2
I look down at the woman in my arms.
She’s still unconscious. Still pale, still too quiet, still not opening her eyes. But her breathing is steady. Her heartbeat pulses strong against my palm where I’m holding her. The wound in her side is closed, new pink skin visible through the tear in her clothes.
“She’s alive.” The words come out hoarse. Broken. “She’s going to live.”
I don’t realize I’m crying until Grothak looks away.
Orcs don’t cry. It’s not done—not in public, not where others can see. Tears are weakness, vulnerability, something to be hidden in darkness and never spoken of.
I don’t care.
I hold Kielyne against my chest and let the tears fall, let them cut tracks through the dust and blood on my face, let myself feel the crushing relief of almost losing her and not.
Let myself feel everything—the fear and the fury and the thing I haven’t let myself name, the thing that makes my chest ache and my arms tighten and my heart beat in time with hers.
The war band gathers around us. Wounded, bloodied, fewer than when we started—but alive. Vekra’s arm hangs at a bad angle. Fenrik has a gash across his forehead that’s going to scar. Grothak is missing two fingers on his left hand, freshly taken.
But they’re here. They came for us. Fought for us.
“Captain,” Vekra’s voice is quiet. Respectful. “What do we do now?”
I look at the ruins of the cathedral. At the scattered remains of Hadrin’s army—some dead, some fleeing, none willing to continue a fight without their commander. At the Bloodscar Plains stretching out around us, dark and silent under the fading moon.
“We find shelter.” My voice is rough, barely recognizable. “We tend our wounded. We wait for her to wake up.”
“And then?”
I look down at Kielyne. At her face, peaceful in unconsciousness, dust settling in her dark curls. At the oath mark on her arm, visible through her torn sleeve—still there, still binding us, but different now. Brighter. Warmer.
“Then we figure out what comes next.” I pull her closer, press my lips to her forehead. “Together.”
We make camp in the ruins of an old watchtower, half a mile from the cathedral’s remains. It’s barely standing—three walls and part of a roof—but it’s shelter from the wind and hidden from the road.
I don’t let go of Kielyne until I absolutely have to. Even then, I only set her down on the bedroll Grothak prepared, and I stay close enough to touch her. To reassure myself she’s still breathing, still warm, still here.
The war band settles around us. The wounded are tended to—badly, without a healer, but enough to keep them alive until Kielyne wakes. Watches are set. Someone builds a small fire, carefully shielded from view.
And I sit beside her, holding her hand, waiting.
“You should rest.” Grothak drops beside me, his newly-bandaged hand cradled against his chest. “You took enough blight to kill three orcs. Your body needs time to—”
“No.”
He sighs. Doesn’t argue. Just sits with me in the quiet, watching the woman who saved my life twice over.
“She broke your chains.” His voice is soft. Wondering. “I’ve never seen anything like it. A human, channeling orc blood magic—”
“She’s remarkable.” The word isn’t enough. No word is enough. “She’s impossible.”
“She’s yours.” Grothak glances at me, something knowing in his gaze. “And you’re hers. Whatever that means for an orc and a human.”
Her eyes open slowly. Blinking against the firelight, confused, disoriented. Her hand tightens on mine—instinct, reaching for something solid in a world that doesn’t make sense yet.
“Kielyne.” Her name comes out rough. Desperate. “You’re safe. We’re safe.”
Her gaze finds mine. Focuses. For a moment, she just stares at me, her expression unreadable.
Then she reaches up, cups my face in her palm, and says: “You idiot.”
I choke on something that might be a laugh or might be a sob. “You’re welcome.”
“I could feel it.” Her voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. “Feel you pulling the poison into yourself. Do you have any idea what that could have—you could have—”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
The answer is simple. Obvious. The only answer there’s ever been.
“Because losing you wasn’t an option.” I turn my face into her palm, breathe her in—blood and smoke and something underneath that’s just her. “Because I’d rather die than watch you slip away while I did nothing.”
Her breath catches. Her eyes go bright with something I’m afraid to name.
“Blorjorn—”
“I know.” I press a kiss to her palm. “I know you’re not ready.
I know you need time. I’m not asking for anything.
” I meet her gaze, let her see everything—the fear and the hope and the thing I’ve stopped trying to hide.
“I just need you to know that I’m here. Whatever you want, whatever you need, however long it takes. I’m not going anywhere.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Her thumb traces my cheekbone, smearing away dust and dried blood.
Then she pulls me down and kisses me.
It’s not fierce, not desperate, not the crashing collision of before.
It’s slow and soft and aching, her lips moving against mine with a tenderness that breaks something open in my chest. Her fingers tangle in my hair.
My hand finds her waist, careful of the healing wound, pulling her closer without letting the war band see.
When she pulls back, her eyes are still too bright. But she’s smiling.
“Idiot,” she whispers again. But it sounds like something else. Something I’m not ready to hear her say.
I press my forehead to hers and let myself breathe. Let myself believe, for the first time since the blade took her, that we’re going to be okay.
Outside the ruined watchtower, dawn breaks over the Bloodscar Plains. The first light in two weeks that doesn’t feel like a threat.