Chapter 1

Kaelen

Twelve years later…

The sun hasn't yet reached its zenith when my father's fist connects with my jaw.

I don't go down. Haven't gone down from one of his hits in three years, and I'm not about to start now. The impact rattles my teeth, sends stars dancing across my vision, but I pivot with the momentum and drive my shoulder into his midsection. It's like hitting a stone wall wrapped in leather and muscle.

My father grunts—the closest thing to approval I'll get—and brings his knee up. I twist, catch it on my hip instead of my gut, and use the opening to hook my leg behind his and shove. For half a heartbeat, I think I might actually take him down.

Then his hand clamps around my throat and I'm airborne.

The training ground's packed earth rushes up to meet me. I tuck and roll, come up in a crouch as Father advances. His iron-grey hair is plastered to his skull with sweat, but he's barely breathing hard. Meanwhile, my lungs are screaming and there's blood in my mouth from where I bit my cheek.

"Again," he barks.

I surge forward. This time I'm faster, meaner. I feint left, go right, and catch him across the temple with my elbow. His head snaps to the side.

The blow would've dropped most orcs. Father just grins, all tusks and fury, and backhands me hard enough that I taste copper and rage in equal measure.

"Predictable." He circles me like one of those razor birds eyeing a wounded dae. "You telegraph every move three seconds before you make it."

"Then stop me." I spit blood into the dust.

His eyes flash—that dangerous red that means I've either pushed him too far or finally said something right. With Father, it's impossible to tell the difference until you're already bleeding.

We crash together again, and this time there's no technique, no strategy. Just violence and the desperate need to prove I'm not the weak, sentiment-addled boy he thinks I am. I take hits that'll leave bruises dark as storm clouds. Give them back twice as hard. My knuckles split against his jaw. His boot catches my ribs and something cracks.

Doesn't matter. None of it matters except that I stay on my feet.

When he finally calls the halt, I'm swaying but standing. Father looks me over with those pitiless red eyes, and for once, there's something other than disappointment in them.

"Better," he says. Then, because he can't let me have anything without taking it back, "Still sloppy. Your footwork's garbage and you drop your guard when you're tired."

"Yes, sir."

"Ten laps around the perimeter. Full pack."

I don't argue. Don't even let my shoulders slump as I head for the training packs—worg leather bags filled with rocks, each one weighing sixty pounds at minimum. I strap mine on without comment, feeling the familiar burn as the weight settles across my shoulders.

Beside me, Rakk materializes with his own pack and a grin that's entirely too cheerful for someone who's spent the last hour getting thrown around by my father's second-in-command.

"Your old man's in rare form today," he says as we start our laps. His olive-green skin is darker with sweat, and there's a spectacular bruise blooming across his jaw. "Think he's trying to kill us before the raid season?"

"Probably." I settle into the punishing rhythm, boots hitting packed earth in steady beats. "How'd you fare?"

"Thalrek has some enchanted staff now to ward off any spell I sneak in." Rakk's disgust is palpable. "It sent it back at me. Couldn't move for a solid ten seconds while he lectured me about relying on magic too much."

"Did you learn anything?"

"Yeah. That Thalrek's a smug bastard who enjoys watching people suffer." But there's no real heat in Rakk's words. He respects Thalrek the same way I do—which is to say, with the kind of grudging admiration reserved for people who make you better by making you miserable.

We run in silence for a while, the only sounds our breathing and the crunch of gravel under our boots. The training grounds sprawl out before us—packed earth and weapon racks, sparring circles and archery ranges. Further out, the practice field where younger warriors drill in formation, their movements still rough and uncoordinated.

I used to be down there with them. Now I train separately, pushed harder and faster because of who my father is. Because of what I'm supposed to become.

"You got him good though," Rakk says, breaking into my thoughts. "That elbow strike. Saw his eyes water."

"Didn't matter."

"That's shit. You know he tells the other captains about you. Brags, even, when he thinks no one's listening."

I nearly stumble. "What?"

"Dad told me. Said Gorrak was going on about your 'warrior instincts' and 'raw potential' after that last skirmish with the raiders." Rakk adjusts his pack, muscles bunching across his brick-wall shoulders. "I think he's going to want you to do more soon."

The words taste wrong, like rotted fruit. My father doesn't brag. Doesn't see anything in me worth praising except maybe my ability to take a beating and keep coming back for more.

"Your father's full of shit," I say.

"Probably. But so's yours if he thinks that scowl makes him look tough instead of constipated." Rakk grins at me, all tusks and mischief. "How's Lola these days?"

I nearly trip over my own feet. "What?"

"Lola. You know—silver hair, blue eyes, that human you've been pining after since we were kids?" He dodges my half-hearted swipe. "Saw her yesterday at the supply tent. Can you believe she still won't give me the time of day?"

Something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest. I shove it down, bury it under the weight and the pain and the exhaustion. "She's got actual taste."

"Not if she's hanging out with you." Rakk's laugh echoes across the training grounds. "I hear that she's turning heads now." 

"I'm going to break your jaw."

"See? Stupid already and she's not even here."

I would hit him, except that would require energy I don't have and would only prove his point. Instead, I focus on breathing, on keeping my pace steady despite the fire spreading through my legs and back. The pack digs into my shoulders with every step, a familiar agony I've learned to love.

This is what matters. Not the warmth that spreads through me when Lola smiles. Not the way my chest tightens when she braids flowers into her silver-blonde hair. Not the hours I spend lying awake, thinking about the curve of her neck and the sound of her laugh.

This. The weight. The pain. The absolute certainty that I can take whatever Father throws at me and stay standing.

"Some of the guys have been talking about her," Rakk continues, because apparently he's decided I haven't suffered enough today. "Don't tell me you haven't heard. You aren't the only one that's noticed how good she looks."

"I'll throw you in the latrine."

"Worth it to see you blush."

"Orcs don't blush."

"Tell that to your face." But he mercifully drops the subject as we round the corner for our eighth lap. My legs are screaming now, muscles quivering with each step. The pack feels like it's gained another twenty pounds. "How many more?"

"Two."

He groans. So do I, internally, but I'd sooner fight Father bare-handed than show weakness now.

We finish the laps in grim silence, each step an act of defiance against our own bodies. When we finally drop the packs, I nearly collapse with them. Every muscle in my body is on fire, ribs aching where Father kicked me, jaw throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

"Dismissed," my father calls from across the training grounds. He doesn't even look at us, already focused on the next group of warriors filing in for their session. "Go make yourselves useful. Thorne wants the armory inventory completed before sundown."

I force myself upright, force my legs to move. Beside me, Rakk does the same, though he's listing slightly to the left.

"Armory duty," he mutters. "Because what I really wanted after that was to count spearheads for three hours."

"Could be worse."

"How?"

"Could be latrine duty."

"Fair point."

We head toward the armory, moving like old warriors instead of orcs barely past our twentieth year. My body will recover—it always does. Tomorrow I'll wake up sore but ready, and Father will push me even harder because that's what he does. That's what I need him to do.

The best parts of myself, Lola calls them. The parts that laugh and joke and feel things besides rage and determination. The parts I've learned to tuck away because they're not useful. Not here. Not for this.

It's worth it. Has to be. Because one day Father will look at me and see not just a warrior, but the warrior. The one who'll lead the clan's vanguard when he's gone. The one who's earned respect through blood and sweat and absolute refusal to break.

Even if it means becoming someone Lola wouldn't recognize.

The armory looms ahead, dark and cool and smelling of oil and steel. Behind us, the training grounds ring with the sounds of combat—grunts and curses, the thud of flesh on flesh. The sounds that define us.

"Race you there," Rakk says.

"You're insane."

"You're scared."

I hit him in the shoulder—lightly, because we're both half-dead—and take off at a limping jog. His laughter follows me, and despite everything, despite the pain and exhaustion and the weight of everything I'm supposed to be, I find myself grinning.

Maybe I haven't tucked away all the best parts yet.

The armory inventory takes longer than expected—three hours turns into four, then nearly five as we catalog every blade, spearhead, and shield in the clan's arsenal. By the time we emerge back into daylight, the sun's begun its descent toward the western horizon and my stomach's staging a very vocal rebellion.

"Food," Rakk announces, as if I haven't been thinking the exact same thing for the past hour. "If I don't eat soon, I'm going to start gnawing on one of those shields."

"You'd break your teeth."

"Worth it."

We make our way toward the center of the base, weaving through the maze of structures carved into the red-rock canyon. The smell of cooking meat drifts from the mess hall—roasted dripir if I'm not mistaken, with that distinctive savory scent that makes my mouth water. Other warriors pass us, most offering nods of acknowledgment. A few of the younger ones step aside quickly, eyes darting to the fresh bruises marking my face.

They know who gave them to me. Know what it means.

"You think they saved us anything decent?" Rakk asks as we round the corner into the central plaza—the Circle of Honor, where challenges and ceremonies take place. Right now it's mostly empty, just a few orcs lingering near the edges, talking in low voices.

"Probably not, knowing our—"

I stop mid-sentence.

Lola.

She's outside Zurkar's shop, maybe thirty feet away, standing in that shaft of late-afternoon sunlight that turns her silver-blonde hair into something almost ethereal. She's got bundles of dried herbs in her hands, hanging them from the wooden rack Zurkar uses for storage. Her movements are efficient, practiced—twelve years of training under the shaman's guidance evident in every gesture.

My feet change direction without consulting my brain first.

"Oh, here we go," Rakk mutters behind me, but there's laughter in his voice. "I thought you were starving?"

I ignore him. My attention's locked on Lola, on the way she stretches to reach the higher hooks, on the pale skin of her arms where her sleeves have rolled back. She's wearing one of her simple work tunics—nothing fancy, just undyed fabric that's seen better days—but somehow she makes it look...

No. Not going there.

"Kaelen, you're pathetic," Rakk calls after me, louder now. "We talked about this. Food first, pining later."

I flip him an obscene gesture without looking back. His laughter follows me across the plaza.

Lola hasn't noticed me yet. She's frowning at a particularly stubborn knot in the twine holding one of the herb bundles, her brow furrowed in concentration. There's a smudge of something—dirt, maybe, or ash—across her left cheek, and bits of dried plant matter cling to her hair.

I'm close enough now that she should sense my presence, but she's too focused on the knot, muttering something under her breath that sounds distinctly uncomplimentary about whoever tied it in the first place.

"Having trouble?"

She jumps, nearly dropping the entire bundle. When she spins around, those bright blue eyes go wide for a heartbeat before recognition sets in. Then her whole face transforms—that smile breaking across her features like sunrise over the canyon walls.

My chest does something complicated and uncomfortable. I shove the feeling down where it belongs.

"Kaelen!" She clutches the herbs to her chest, still beaming. "When did you—I didn't hear you at all. You're getting too good at sneaking up on people."

"Not my fault you're oblivious." I gesture at the bundle. "Need help?"

"From you? With your giant fingers?" But she's already holding it out, that teasing glint in her eyes that I've known since we were kids. "Though I suppose even you can't make it worse than whoever tied this monstrosity."

I take the bundle, examining the knot. It's definitely Zurkar's work—the shaman's got healing hands but his knot-tying skills are absolute garbage. "This is terrible."

"I know! I've been fighting with it for ten minutes." She watches as I work the knot loose, her attention fixed on my hands. "How was training?"

"Brutal."

"Your face looks it." She reaches up without thinking, fingers almost brushing the bruise spreading across my jaw before she catches herself and pulls back. The almost-touch leaves my skin feeling strange. "Did Gorrak—"

"Yeah."

Her mouth tightens, just slightly. Twelve years haven't made her any fonder of my father, no matter how much respect she shows him in public. She knows exactly what his training sessions entail. Has patched me up after enough of them.

"Well, you're still standing," she says finally. "That's something."

"That's the goal." I get the knot undone, hand the bundle back. Our fingers brush during the exchange—just for a second—and that warmth flares in my chest again. I squash it. "What about you? Zurkar keeping you busy?"

"Always." She turns back to hang the herbs properly, and I notice the way she winces slightly as she reaches up. Her muscles are probably screaming after however many hours she's been doing this. "He's got me preparing everything for the harvest ceremony next month. Apparently I need to learn seventeen different blessing rituals, master three types of healing poultices I've never even heard of, and memorize the entire catalog of medicinal plants native to this region."

"Sounds simple."

"Oh, incredibly." She secures another bundle, then another. I find myself just watching her work, the practiced efficiency of her movements. "And then tomorrow I get to help him with the pregnancy blessing for Shekra. You remember her? Mated to Thornak last year?"

"The one who nearly took his head off during the ceremony?"

"That's her." Lola's laugh is bright and genuine, the kind that makes something in me settle. Like everything's right with the world when she sounds like that. "Zurkar says she's already making Thornak's life miserable. I can't wait to see how much worse it gets when the baby arrives."

She finishes with the last bundle and steps back, surveying her work with a critical eye. Apparently satisfied, she wipes her hands on her tunic—adding more dirt to the collection already there—and turns to face me fully.

Her nose wrinkles. "You smell terrible."

"Thanks. Really appreciate that."

"No, I mean it. You smell like..." She waves a hand in front of her face. "Like death and sweat had a baby and that baby rolled in a latrine."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"I'm being serious! How do you even—" She leans in slightly, then immediately recoils. "Oh, that's horrific. What did you do, wrestle a worg?"

"Close. Carried a sixty-pound pack for ten laps after Father knocked me around for an hour."

"That explains it." She's still wrinkling her nose, but there's affection in the expression. "You know Zurkar has soaps specifically designed to—"

I don't let her finish. In one quick motion, I step closer and wipe my forearm across her shoulder—slow, deliberate, leaving a streak of sweat and canyon dust on her previously clean tunic.

She shrieks. Actually shrieks, jumping back like I've just set her on fire. "KAELEN!"

"What? You said I smelled bad. Thought you might want to match."

"You absolute—" She lunges at me, hands outstretched, but I'm already backing away. Her fingers catch nothing but air. "Get back here!"

"Why? So you can push me into Zurkar's herb garden again?"

"That was ONE TIME and you deserved it!"

"Did not."

"You put a slimy animal in my apprentice bag!"

"It was a brox," I correct, still retreating as she advances. "They have names."

"IT WAS DISGUSTING." But she's laughing now, that full-body laugh that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners and her whole face light up. "And you're still disgusting now. Seriously, Kaelen, that's—ugh, I can smell myself now."

"You're welcome."

"I'm going to murder you."

"You're too small."

"I know where you sleep!"

This—this is what I live for. Not the training or the violence or the constant need to prove myself to Father. Not the weight of expectations or the future everyone seems so certain I'm destined for. Just this. Lola threatening my life while grinning like she's never been happier. The easy back-and-forth we've perfected over twelve years of friendship. The way she makes everything else fade into background noise.

She's still advancing on me, murder in her eyes but laughter on her lips. I let her get close—closer than I probably should—before sidestepping at the last second. She stumbles slightly, catches herself, spins around with her hands on her hips.

"You're impossible."

"I'm efficient. Big difference."

"That's not—" She breaks off, shaking her head. But she's smiling, and that smile does something dangerous to my chest cavity. "Fine. You win this round. But next time you come near me after training, I'm throwing healing herbs at your face."

"The expensive ones?"

"The ones that stain."

"Worth it."

She rolls her eyes, but there's no heat in it. Just that comfortable familiarity that comes from knowing someone inside and out. From growing up together in a clan that sees her as less-than but keeps her around anyway because my mother decreed it.

The thought sends a familiar twist of anger through my gut, but I don't let it show. Lola doesn't need my rage on her behalf. She's carved out her own place here, earned her own respect through years of dedication to Zurkar's teachings. The fact that some orcs still look at her like she's property instead of a person—

I shut that line of thinking down hard.

"You really do smell awful though," Lola says, softer now. She's close enough that I can see the flecks of green in her blue eyes, the way her silver-blonde hair catches the fading light. "And you're covered in bruises. Are you sure you're—"

"I'm fine."

"Kaelen—"

"I'm fine," I repeat, more firmly. Because I am. This is normal. This is what warriors do. "Father's just making sure I'm ready."

"Ready for what?"

"Whatever comes next."

It's a non-answer and we both know it, but Lola doesn't push. She never does, even though I can see the concern written clearly across her face. Instead, she reaches up and—despite her earlier complaints about my smell—gently touches the bruise spreading across my cheekbone.

Her fingers are cool against my overheated skin. Gentle in a way nothing else in my life is gentle.

"You should let Zurkar look at this," she murmurs. "It's already swelling."

"It's fine."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it keeps being true."

Her hand drops away, but not before I feel the loss of that small touch like a physical ache. Which is stupid. Completely stupid. We're friends. Just friends. Have been for twelve years and will be for twelve more, and I'm perfectly content with that arrangement.

Even if Rakk keeps insinuating otherwise. Even if my mother gets that knowing look whenever Lola's name comes up. Even if sometimes—like right now, with the sun turning her hair to spun silver and her eyes full of worry I don't deserve—I feel something that definitely isn't just friendship trying to claw its way to the surface.

I bury it. Bury it deep where it can't cause problems.

Because beautiful women in orc clans have one purpose, and the thought of anyone looking at Lola that way—using her that way—makes my stomach turn violent and sick. My father would never allow anything between us anyway. Would probably disown me for even considering it.

Not that I'm considering it.

Not that there's anything to consider.

We're friends. That's all. That's enough.

"I should get back," Lola says, though she doesn't move. "Zurkar wanted me to finish cataloging the bluefrost supply before dark, and I still need to—"

"KAELEN!" Rakk's bellow echoes across the plaza. "Stop flirting and get your ass over here! They're running out of food!"

Lola's cheeks flush pink—actually pink, which would be amusing if my own face wasn't probably doing something similar. "I'm not—we weren't—"

"Ignore him," I mutter. "He's an idiot."

"He's your best friend."

"Doesn't make him less of an idiot."

She laughs again, and that sound settles something restless in my chest. "Go eat before Rakk has a breakdown. And seriously, Kaelen—wash. Please. For everyone's sake."

"Where's the fun in that?"

"I'm going to tell Zurkar you've been bothering me."

"You'd never."

"Try me."

I chuckle, staring at her and thinking that everything is far too perfect right now.