Chapter 6 Korgan
KORGAN
The kiss replays in my mind like a battle memory, vivid, immediate, impossible to dismiss. Except this was no battle. No enemy to defeat, no territory to claim. Just Trinity's soft mouth beneath mine and the way she'd melted against me like heated metal finding its shape.
What does it mean when a human female shares breath willingly? When she makes those small sounds of surrender?
In orc tradition, such intimacy signals intent. A claiming. But humans operate by different codes, ones that shift like river currents. What I interpreted as invitation might have been mere curiosity. What felt like bonding might have been entertainment.
I pace the orc quarters after the elimination ceremony, my mind churning.
Three human contestants went home tonight, including the blonde who'd spent the evening shooting poison glances at Trinity.
But Trinity remains. As do I. The producers announced tomorrow's challenges with their usual theatrical enthusiasm, but their words blurred into meaningless noise.
All I could focus on was the taste of cinnamon still lingering on my tongue.
My comm unit buzzes. Grax, my old war-brother, calling from the mountain territories.
"Korgan." His voice carries the familiar gravel of home. "How goes your diplomatic mission among the soft-skins?"
"Complicated." I settle onto the reinforced chair that creaks ominously under my weight. "I require counsel."
"Ah. You've encountered resistance? Political maneuvering?"
"I kissed one of them."
Silence stretches across the connection. Then Grax's booming laugh echoes through the speaker.
"A human female? During combat negotiations?"
"During a..." I search for orc words that fit. "A ritual food-sharing. Under artificial starlight. She brought me something she'd crafted with her own hands."
"Food gifts." Grax's tone turns thoughtful. "Among the northern clans, accepting crafted food creates blood-debt. But humans..." He pauses. "Did she offer it formally? With ceremony?"
"She seemed nervous. Kept touching her hair. Said it was experimental."
"Experimental." Another pause. "Brother, I believe she was courting you."
The word hits like a war-hammer to the chest. Courting. The deliberate pursuit of a mate through demonstration of skill and worthiness.
"You're certain?"
"Food crafted specifically for one individual, offered in private, followed by mouth-contact? Either courting or assassination attempt. Given that you're still breathing..."
Heat builds in my body, part excitement, part terror. If Trinity was courting me—if that kiss was declaration rather than curiosity—then I've gravely underestimated the situation.
"What do I do?"
"Return the gesture. Demonstrate your worthiness as a provider and protector. Have you brought her fresh kill?"
"Grax."
"Right, humans don't eat raw meat. Flowers, then. Or shiny objects. They love shiny objects."
"That's magpies."
"Close enough. Oh! War paint. Show her your battle honors. Humans respect displays of strength."
I close my eyes. "These humans are different. Softer. More..." I struggle for words. "More concerned with feelings than strength."
"Feelings." Grax says the word like it tastes sour. "What manner of warfare is this?"
"Not warfare. Courtship."
"Same thing, different weapons." His voice brightens with what I recognize as dangerous enthusiasm. "I have it. Scent-marking. Cover yourself in pleasant oils to signal availability. The elders say human females are driven by scent, like tracking hounds."
"I am not dousing myself in perfume."
"Not perfume. Musk. Powerful musk that announces your virility from great distances."
I end the call before he can suggest anything involving territorial displays or ritual combat.
Perhaps seeking advice from someone whose idea of romance involves clubbing potential mates unconscious was unwise.
But the conversation clarifies one thing: if Trinity was courting me, I need to respond appropriately. Not with flowers or perfume, but in ways that honor both her customs and mine. Show her I can provide. Protect. Be worthy of the gift she offered.
A knock interrupts my planning. "Mr. Dongoran?" A production assistant's voice, nervous and high-pitched. "The producers would like to see you in Conference Room B."
I find them clustered around tablets and coffee cups, their faces bright with the particular malice of people who've discovered something exploitable.
"Korgan! Fantastic work tonight." Marcus, the head producer, gestures to a chair. "That moment with Trinity was pure gold. The chemistry, the tension—our focus groups are going crazy."
I sit carefully, keeping my expression neutral. "You filmed us."
"Well, yes. That's the show." He waves dismissively. "The point is, we want to capitalize on this momentum. Build the narrative."
"Narrative."
"Tomorrow's challenge is perfect. We're doing competing dates, you and Trinity versus one of our other bachelor-contestant pairs. A little friendly competition to see which couple has the strongest connection."
Something cold settles in my stomach. "What manner of competition?"
"Oh, the usual. Physical challenges, trust exercises, maybe a bit of comedy. We've got this amazing obstacle course set up, some hilarious costumes..." He flips through his tablet. "Trinity will love the surprise element."
"What surprise element?"
"Well, we can't tell you everything. That would ruin the spontaneity." His smile turns sharp. "But don't worry—we'll make sure she looks adorable struggling through it."
The cold in my stomach turns to ice. "Struggling."
"In a cute way! Audiences love watching the underdog overcome obstacles. We might have a few technical difficulties with her equipment. Nothing dangerous, just enough to create dramatic tension."
I understand now. They plan to humiliate her for entertainment. Make her fail publicly while I succeed, creating their precious narrative of the strong orc rescuing the helpless human.
"No."
Marcus blinks. "Excuse me?"
"I will not participate in sabotaging Trinity for your cameras."
"Sabotage is such an ugly word. We prefer 'creative storytelling.
'" He leans forward. "Look, Korgan, we both know why you're here.
Image rehabilitation, right? For your people?
This storyline works for everyone. You look protective and heroic, she looks endearing and relatable, and our ratings go through the roof. "
"At her expense."
"She signed the same contracts you did. She knows what she's getting into."
"She signed contracts to compete fairly. Not to be made a fool of."
Marcus's expression hardens. "We can edit this footage any way we want. Make you look like the villain or the hero. Your choice."
Threat. Direct and unmistakable. I've heard its like from human officials before, the suggestion that cooperation brings rewards while resistance brings consequences.
In war, such threats would be answered with violence. Here, I must choose my weapons more carefully.
I stand slowly, letting my full height register. "You will treat Trinity with respect during tomorrow's challenge. You will not sabotage her equipment or create artificial difficulties. Any technical problems will be genuine accidents, not manufactured drama."
"Or what?"
"Or I will ensure that every camera in that room mysteriously malfunctions during the most dramatic moments." I lean forward, placing my hands flat on the table. The wood creaks. "Repeatedly."
One of the assistant producers goes pale. Marcus tries to maintain his composure, but I catch the slight tremor in his hands.
"You're under contract—"
"To participate. Not to enable harassment." I straighten. "Choose your next words carefully, human."
The title carries just enough edge to remind them what I am. What I'm capable of when pushed.
Marcus clears his throat. "Of course. Fair competition. We'll... adjust the challenge parameters."
"See that you do."
I leave them scrambling to revise their plans, their excited chatter turned nervous and sharp. But as I return to my quarters, a new concern surfaces.
Tomorrow they'll be watching us more carefully. Looking for ways to manipulate our connection into their preferred narrative. I need to warn Trinity without appearing to coach her, protect her without making her seem weak.
More diplomatic navigation. More careful balance between what they want to see and what actually serves our purposes.
But as I prepare for sleep, muscle memory brings back the sensation of Trinity's lips beneath mine. The way she'd pressed closer instead of pulling away. The soft sound she'd made when I deepened the kiss.
If Grax is right, if that was courtship rather than curiosity, then Trinity has declared her interest. Now I must prove myself worthy of it—not through displays of strength or territory, but through protection offered freely. Support given without diminishment.
Tomorrow's challenge will be our first real test. Not of our individual abilities, but of our capacity to function as a united front against those who would use us for entertainment.
I fall asleep planning strategies that have nothing to do with winning competitions and everything to do with ensuring Trinity emerges with her dignity intact.
The producers want their narrative. I'll give them one—just not the one they're expecting.
The morning brings tactical assessments and unwelcome realizations.
I wake before dawn, as is my custom, and immediately begin cataloguing yesterday's events with military precision.
The kiss: strategically advantageous, creating viewer investment in our pairing.
The producer meeting: successful intimidation, ensuring fair competition parameters.
Trinity's reaction post-kiss: positive indicators, suggesting continued cooperation.
All according to plan. All serving the greater purpose of orc-human relations.