Blood and Boundaries

The morning fog still clung to the mossy ground as Gor'ka moved like a shadow through the trees. Her breath was even, but her eyes flicked between trunks and undergrowth. She had tracked the scent since dawn—musk, sweat, and fear. One of them had strayed too close. A scout.

She found him near a stream, crouched low, sniffing the wind. Young. Brash. Still green in his fangs. He didn't hear her approach. The only weapon he carried was a single axe strapped to his back—broad-headed, worn, but functional. A hunter's tool, not a soldier's. He didn't expect a fight. That was his mistake.

She crept through the undergrowth with the silence of a stalking cat, every step measured, her breath shallow to avoid giving herself away. The dampness clung to her skin, and though her senses were sharp, her body was not what it had been—still wounded, still aching. Just a few more feet—

Then, a twig snapped beneath her boot.

The scout turned just in time to catch her first strike on the haft of his axe, sparks flaring as steel met seasoned wood. Gor'ka gritted her teeth, feeling the jolt in her shoulder as she spun with the recoil. She landed in a low crouch, ribs shrieking in protest from the sudden motion. Still, her lips curled into a grin. Pain only meant she was alive—and alive meant she could kill.

He swung wildly, a wide arc meant to scare. She ducked under it and drove her shoulder into his gut, lifting and flipping him over her hip. He hit the mud hard, breath knocked clean from his lungs. She followed, ignoring the throb in her knee where it had struck a root. Her fingers grabbed a handful of his hair, yanking his head back just as he tried to roll away.

He grunted and struck out, clipping her side with his elbow. She snarled and retaliated with a vicious knee to his ribs, then slammed her elbow into his throat. He gagged. Air was now her weapon.

Her dagger flashed in her hand. She pinned him beneath her, blade pressed to his neck. His breathing was ragged, desperate. Her own chest heaved, the pain in her ribs now dull fire.

And still—she laughed. A short, rough sound. Her blood raced not just with victory but with joy. The old thrill. The need. It had been too long.

Grakh'tul would've ended him already, she thought with a strange pride. Ripped him in half. Smashed his skull like it was nothing. I'd love to watch him do it.

The image made her grin grow wider. The idea of standing beside him as he tore through her former pack—it sent a thrill down her spine. Her Grakh'tul, her white-eyed fury. By the moons, she thought, what a pair we make.

Still she didn't strike. She was wounded, yes—but far from broken. Her mind was clearer than it had been in days. He would talk. Or bleed. Or both. But this was her fight—and she wasn't done playing yet.

"Grashnakh," she snarled. The name tasted like rot.

He wheezed beneath her, spitting blood and fury. Gor'ka's nostrils flared, and her grip tightened. The insult hit her like a slap, stirring not just rage but a sharp sting in her chest—a reminder of every moment she'd fought to choose her own path. Her breath caught, just for a heartbeat, before she masked it with cold fury. "You stink of human seed," he hissed.

The words hit her like a slap, and for a breath, she froze. Heat surged behind her eyes—not from shame, but from the violent pull of memory and pride. Her jaw clenched. She had fought, bled, chosen. She remembered the night she stood alone on the high ridge, blood seeping from her brow as Urdok roared behind her, demanding submission. The sting of his backhand. The taste of defiance on her tongue. The wind had howled around her, carrying with it the scent of ash and old warpaint. Even then, she had not knelt. Not then, not now. And he dared to reduce that to filth? "You've been taken by a Human-thing. You shame us all."

Her lips curled, but she didn't strike—not yet. He continued, choking on his own words. "They'll find you. You'll kneel before the elders, beg for your skin. You smell like filth. Like elf. Like betrayal."

She slammed the hilt of her dagger into his mouth. Two teeth broke loose.

"You talk too much."

He writhed. "You were promised to Urdok. And you give yourself to some… outsider? To a crippled fool who barely lives?"

Her gaze darkened. "He bested me. Urdok never could. Her jaw tightened as she remembered the first time Urdok had tried to prove himself—loud, cruel, always posturing, never risking his own blood. He had never faced her without a dozen eyes watching. Leopold had come to her alone, bled with her, and won. That mattered. That meant everything. Her jaw tightened as she remembered the first time Urdok had tried to prove himself—loud, cruel, always posturing, never risking his own blood. He had never faced her without a dozen eyes watching. Leopold had come to her alone, bled with her, and won. That mattered. That meant everything.." Her eyes narrowed. And that means more than bloodlines or promises. That means strength—the kind that doesn't need to be proven again and again.

He tried to lunge upward. She slammed him down again. "And I chose him. That makes me his. Grakh'tul. Mate."

"Mate?" he sneered. "You'll bear his weakling spawn?"

For a moment, silence. Then something flickered behind her eyes. Doubt? No—determination. She pressed the blade harder.

"I don't know what I'll bear. But it won't be shame."

She bound his wrists with thin vines and roots, enough to hold for now, and used his own belt to secure his ankles. As he thrashed and swore, she slung the axe over her shoulder and dragged him back through the woods.

As the trees thinned and the first orange glow of dawn crept into the mist, Gor'ka looked to the cave in the distance. She exhaled slowly.

He must know. Everything. Even what I fear. Even what I hope.

She paused, clutching the haft of the orc's axe. It was heavy. Stained. But solid. A weapon worthy of a warrior.

For him, she thought. For my Grakh'tul.